


Aggressive use of Florists

by Mountainwolf



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A little bit of angst, Auror Harry Potter, Canon Divergence - Post-Hogwarts, Caring Draco Malfoy, Dick Jokes, Domestic Fluff, Drama, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Family Drama, Floriography, Florist Harry, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Godfather Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry Potter Raises Teddy Lupin, Heartbroken Harry Potter, Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Ministry of Magic Employee Draco Malfoy, Ministry of Magic Employee Hermione Granger, Oblivious Harry, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Harry Potter, Pining, Post-Hogwarts, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Reformed Draco Malfoy, Slow Burn, Snark, Soft Harry, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, lots of magical flowers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-18 16:22:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 58,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21780361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mountainwolf/pseuds/Mountainwolf
Summary: Harry is being lovesick in Neville’s flowershop after having been dumped, and Draco is very aggressively winning over ministry members by sending them fuck-you flowers. Harry is absolutely no help but learns a lot about floriography, stupid purebloods, and Draco.OR; Harry struggles raising Teddy alone, longing for a partner and a family. His future dreams for domestic bliss have been crushed by his ex, who left him for a better looking, more ambitious, less 'damaged' model. A lot of people try to support Harry, but he is, as ever, hiding how truly bad things are going. Then, Hermione -and a few others, set Draco on him and things start developing in a direction neither really expected. Everyone sees how good Draco and Harry could be together, and with some political maneuvering from unexpected sources-and a lot of flower deliveries, they start to see it too.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hannah Abbott/Neville Longbottom, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 134
Kudos: 502





	1. Purple boots and quivering poppies

**Author's Note:**

> I have only some idea where this is going, and this is only my first ever fanfic, so be kind! Comments and suggestions are very much appreciated. I will try to keep writing on this in a semi-regular fashion (say, at least biweekly uploads). We'll see.
> 
> NB: I am not a native speaker, and mistakes will be inevitable. Comments pointing out mistakes, weird grammar, or flow-issues are very welcome.
> 
> EDIT: I got many nasty anonymous comments on how awful the Hermione/Draco friendship is to Ron. If you don't like/can't imagine the friendship, or don't see how Ron can respect it, or how don't see how people can change, that's okay. Just don't read, and don't comment.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry has accepted Neville's offer to work in his shop after he's quit the Aurors. He's convincing himself that maybe the breakup with Marcus isn't so bad, no one needs to worry about him, and he really enjoys working with plants. If only that new customer wouldn't make his palms sweat so much...

“No Teddy, don’t do the scar thing” Harry sighed, straightening Teddy’s jumper. Teddy had a penchant for metamorphing into anyone’s younger sibling. Which was, without a doubt, an absolute nightmare to keep track of when outside in public. While Teddy was good at keeping his promise and not changing his looks outside, he stubbornly wanted to mimic Harry’s scar.  
“But it’s so coooooooool” the child argued, blinking shiny green puppy eyes at him. _Merlin_. Harry had to laugh. “If you say so, pup”, ruffling Teddy’s hair. “But it’s still a no”, he added more sternly, frowning down. Teddy stopped blinking plaintively and sighed, tugging his sweater crooked again. Harry chuckled.  
“Come on pup, get your new boots on and we can go to the Burrow”. He gave Teddy a little nudge, and the pair of them bumbled down to the kitchen, where said boots were propped up on the table. Teddy’s ninth birthday had been just two days ago, and he had asked for purple boots with a gold buckle, “Just like professor Dumbledore in that painting you have, Harry”. So Harry had scoured Diagon Alley for oldfashioned wizarding boots, to no avail. And while many shopkeepers would have been “Happy to custom make something for you, Mr. Harry Potter sir,”, Harry had of course left giftshopping until the last minute, and had run out of time. Eventually Hermione had sent him a catalogue for kids’ costumes, and he had Express-Owl Ordered said boots in the nick of time. Teddy had squealed in delight, clapping his hands.  
At breakfast he had grown himself a long white beard, although matching eyebrows had proved too distracting while eating his cereal. Afterwards, they had giggled trying to comb out Colour-Changing Crispy Crups from his beard, Teddy deciding to keep it until just before tea, when he got tired.  
And while Harry had of course gotten him more than the boots –like new barking-crup printed sheets, a bedside light that changed like the moon and howled in the morning, and a sparkling fireworks cake for dessert, he had still loved the boots best. He had tapdanced around the room belting at full volume “I am the realest wizard!” swinging his hips wildly yelling “Look at my swagger!!” twirling around with arms raised, beard trailing in the air behind him. Harry couldn’t just stand there, and instead had waved his wand and put on the gramophone to some ABBA –of course, Teddy’s favourite, and had awkwardly bopped along, grinning from ear to ear.  
The records were nearly all Sirius’s, but some had borne the initials of a certain R.J. Lupin and Harry had taken the lot down from under Sirius’ loose floorboards and kept them in the sitting room, where they could be used. It was something to remember the two old Marauders by, and he wanted Teddy to know this small part of his dad. While the ABBA was Sirius’, there were some excellent Bowie albums of Remus that Harry couldn’t wait to introduce Teddy to when he was a little older. Watching his godson’s elated dancing and utter original ridiculousness, he felt that perhaps he was doing some things right as a godfather.  
The knot that had lodged itself in his throat since Marcus left two weeks ago lessened slightly. Perhaps he could do this thing after all, even without a partner. He swallowed quickly.  
When Teddy was finally done twirling in his new boots, brushed his teeth and combed his currently unmanageable black hair, Harry floo’d with him to the Burrow. They were greeted by Victoire, blond braids flying around as she stormed towards Teddy to congratulate him and pull him to the kitchen.  
“Come see Teddy, Molly made three cakes! THREE!” she couldn’t seem to contain her baffled excitement and Teddy was pulled from Harry’s grasp, soot staining the rug in the living room. Molly bustled in, wearing an apron and her greying red hair a messy know upon her head. She smiled widely upon seeing them, and hugged Teddy on his way to the kitchen, wrangling him from Victoire and kissing him happy birthday.

“Good to see you both dears, Harry, how about breakfast?” Harry smiled back.  
“No thanks Molly, I need to get going. The shop, you know.” He quickly cleaned to soot off the rug with his wand, and watched Teddy and Victoire disappear through the kitchen door, followed by more squeals of delight. “Ron and Hermione not here?”. He had expected them to help Molly prepare for Teddy's belated birthday party later that day.  
Molly shook her head, “no, Hermione wasn’t feeling well this morning, apparently she got sick halfway through the floo trip. Poor dear.” Harry nodded, and resolved to call them later. “Ron will at least try to make it later, for Teddy’s proper party”, she added. “The others should be here then too, for now we should at least try to have a regular school day,” -peals of laughter came from the kitchen, followed by a giant CRASH and SPLAT! “or at least try not to ruin all the cakes before the party”, she added dryly.  
Victoire’s accidental magic usually manifested itself in short bursts of levitation. Likely of cake, today. Teddy’s shrieks continued from behind the kitchen door. Harry had to chuckle, “Good luck with that. Ask Teddy about his boots and he’ll be dancing your arms off!”.   
Molly laughed “oh, that wonderful boy” she muttered fondly. “If you’re sure about that breakfast?” she asked, sounding worried, and Harry nodded “I’m sure, I’m the only one at the shop today.”  
Molly stepped forward and hugged him again “You’ll be alright dearie” she whispered in his ear, and he suddenly felt the lump in his throat return. _Don't think about it, don't think about it_ , he chanted to himself. He cleared his throat, avoided looking at her when he let go, and turned to the floo. “Behave, Teddy!” he yelled as a goodbye to his kid, and stepped into the green flames. “Spectral Sprouts!” he called out.  
  
Stumbling out of the floor at Neville’s flower shop, he quickly cleared the dust and then went to switch the sign on the door to ‘open’. It looked quiet on Diagon yet, and his curious eyes earned him a wave from Mrs. Picklewilly next door, and he waved back, smiling. Mrs. Picklewilly owned the shop across from Neville’s, and was a lovely elderly witch who ran a cook and crockery shop that was stacked so completely full you had to navigate it with great care. While he never asked, he was sure that Molly had at least gotten all her cookbooks, if not her pots from “Pot, Kettle, Pickle”.  
Mr. Picklewilly had passed away seven years prior, but “dear old Dick” was still a regular topic of many a conversation with Mrs. Picklewilly. While always good to listen to for the latest gossip on Diagon –she was close friends with Mrs. McCarthy from ‘Eye of Newt Apothecary’ on the other end of Diagon Alley, who always had the freshest gossip, and they subsequently always knew the goings on of most of Diagon-, when she got to talking about her no-good daughter in law, or worse, “that sad business with your latest beau”, he couldn’t wait to get back in Neville’s shop.  
Neville’s shop was a small little shop at the east end of Diagon, and the smell inside was just incredible. As soon as you stepped inside you were enveloped in the scent of a wide array of flowers, herbs, and ozone. While not all that light inside the shop itself, it had a wonderful little greenhouse in the back where it was always sunny and warm. Harry took his tea breaks there. That was another perk of working in Neville’s shop; all the different tea brews he could sample, all of which were sold in the shop themselves.   
Harry never had had such a spread, and it felt like an utter luxury. The Auror breakroom never got any other tea than breakfast and earl grey, and biscuits were usually gone by Tuesday. Hannah –Neville’s wife, made biscuits every week, two kinds always; Lavender-vanilla, honey-thyme, gingerbread, all sorts. Sometimes decorated with sugary roses, or other flowers. Yes, Neville’s shop was definitely better than the DMLE. Even if he didn’t know what he was doing. Or what he was going to do to “get back on his feet”. He had Teddy to take care of, and to be honest, money enough to spend in ten lifetimes. But he needed to feel useful. When Neville had offered that he could mind the shop so Hannah could take it easier, now being seven months pregnant, he had accepted immediately. He tried very hard to ignore the pitying look the two of them had exchanged at his enthusiasm. He was _fine_. Not _lonely_ at all.   
He had come in the next day to get a brief explanation, get decked out with chocolate pecan turtles made by Hannah, and had simply started tending the shop. Cleaning, watering, reading up on his basic herbology skills. Talking to the babbling begonia's, softly stroking the white velvet lilies. While he wasn’t able to help out much with the medicinal plants or more dangerous one –yet, Neville came in nearly every day just before closing to check up on them. Three days a week Neville assisted professor Sprout at Hogwarts, having accepted an apprenticeship with the goal to take over from her in two years. All in all, he had only had half a week to twiddle his thumbs and ignore letters from Robards. To feel the gaping hole inside him grow larger and larger. Keeping busy helped. If not for the press still harassing him when he stepped out on the street about his and Marcus’ breakup, and the sleepless nights, he could keep up the pretense that he was fine. Especially in the week of Teddy’s birthday. He just simply _had_ to.  
  
After turning the doorsign to 'open', he flicked his wand towards the lights to switch them on, emitting a soft glow on the shelves. He made himself a cup of fresh tea, then proceeded to the till to start on inventory. There were some new herbal scent-sachets to aid in sleep. Wryly he wondered if he should try them, although he didn’t quite fancy having a frilly pink sachet hanging over his headboard. Furthermore, since Kreacher had died Grimmauld Place sometimes showed unpredictable magic to foreign objects -especially non-magical things. It would be exactly his luck to have the house turn the pink frilly sachets into a choking pillow, or something. Generally the idea was to hang them near the bed and it would lull the user into a dreamless slumber, without the need for potions. They claimed to be a kid-safe alternative for Dreamless Sleep. According to Hannah, all the new moms had them hanging above their baby’s cribs. She figured if the witches from her maternity class would buy them, they might as well sell them.  
Having finished inventory and his cup of tea, he set to arrange them in an attractive manner on the counter. Should they be stacked? Or rather set in a neat line? No, a pyramid shape might be better, but… “Shit!”. He managed to knock about half of them off, and a few fell open on the floor, spreading their contents everywhere. The air filled with the air of lavender, rosemary, jasmine and some other herbs he couldn’t identify. Harry sighed and bent over, hoping to gather the herbs and refill the bags. While Neville wasn’t overpaying Harry by any means, and his minding the shop was really just a way to keep busy, he didn’t exactly want to ruin their business by breaking wares or ruining them.  
  
Still on his hands and knees he heard the bell above the door jingle, announcing a new customer. Three clipped, sharp steps announced a voice.  
“Good day. I would like a bouquet of _severe disappointment_ , please”. The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but most definitely annoyed and short, if not utterly polite in its words. Harry grunted and straightened himself up, hoping this new customer wouldn’t mind all the scattered dried herbs still on the floor, and all over his clothes. The smell of Neville’s magically enhanced lavender was nearly overwhelming, and he felt his nose itch.  
“Welcome to Spectral Sprouts, what can I –Malfoy?!” Upon seeing his new customer his welcome faltered. A silence fell, and he was sure he was gaping.  
“Potter. What are you doing here?”, Malfoy asked, before recomposing himself and adding “Never mind really, can the florist please help me compose a bouquet?”.  
Harry closed his mouth, feeling wrong footed after being confronted with _Malfoy_ of all people. And so close, all of a sudden. Which, try as he might to deny it, still made his insides squirm, and his palms sweaty.  
There was something scintillating about Malfoy, standing in front of him, swirling grey eyes intent on his, one eyebrow raised in impatient anticipation –was that a pureblood thing?- looking elegant in his slim-fitting black robes.  
Harry cleared his throat “I will help you, you know” he shifted back and forth. It seemed like his magic went a bit jittery, reaching over the counter towards Malfoy, as if fascinated. Harry steeled his resolve, pulled it back, and raised his eyes to Malfoy’s.  
Malfoy’s previous annoyance seemed to return. “Well then, if you must. I need flowers to convey my utter disappointment in someone”, he prompted again, his upper lip curling slightly upwards.  
“Ehm,” Harry started, “don’t flowers usually mean positive things?” he asked, “Like love, or an apology, or get well soon?”. He had no clue about ‘disappointment flowers’. Did they actually exist? If Malfoy wanted to buy some sort of rotten black roses or other dramatic shit, he was _not_ in the right place.  
Neville sold all sort of beautiful, magical and non-magical flowers, plants, and in the greenhouse in the back, magical herbs for potions and medicine.  
Malfoy sighed “ _Of course_ you wouldn’t know anything about floriography” he sneered. “Never mind. Could you possibly point me towards your cut flower selection?”.  
Harry nodded, and came from behind the till. “Follow me, then” he gestured, and went off to their colourful display of individual flowers.  
“Thank you, Potter. I’ll come get you when I’m done.” Malfoy dismissed him, already perusing the buckets full of carnations, lilies, fanged geraniums, and dancing tulips. A bunch of ever-blooming poppies were shivering excitedly at the attention Malfoy was giving them. He smiled slightly, whispering “Yes, you’re very pretty” before continuing his search. The poppies nearly fainted in admiration. Harry snorted, hoping Malfoy couldn’t hear him or notice him watching.  
  
After a few minutes, Malfoy nodded to himself and then swiftly gathered a bunch of violet geraniums, meadowsweet, and deep purple carnations. Harry straightened up and tried to look busy again with the still incomplete display of sleep-sachets.  
“These will do, Potter”, Malfoy stated, spreading the flowers out on the counter.  
“Alright then”, Harry replied, picking them up and doing his best to bind them together into a nice looking bouquet. He was silently grateful that Neville had insisted on giving him a flower-binding course last Saturday afternoon because he “wouldn’t see his delicate blooms mishandled in his typically Harry-way”. Harry had rolled his eyes at that, but was relieved when the bouquet seemed to turn out well.  
“Tell me, who are these for then?” he asked, as he added some leafy greens to buff it out a little.  
Malfoy stiffened a bit “If you _must_ know, Potter, these are for Desiderius Wilkes. We work together at the ministry.”  
Harry raised his eyebrows “Why does he deserve flowers then? Are they a thank you?” he finished tying the bottom together with a string, and checked the final result.  
Malfoy snorted inelegantly. “If you would have paid any attention, Potter, I wanted to express my extreme disappointment in someone. Although it looks like I might have to buy you the same bouquet”.  
Harry felt his cheeks colour. “Well then, assume I’m extremely stupid. Enlighten me. Why are these the right ones?”. Harry rung up the number on the till, and Malfoy got out his Gringotts bag.  
"Because, Potter, these geraniums will tell Desiderius he’s been stupid, the meadowsweet will point out his uselessness, and the carnations will convey to him that he has utterly disappointed me.” He explained gleefully. “Purple too, is the colour of hopelessness and disappointment. It will also convey that I expect better of him in the future. He’ll appreciate that’’.  
Harry felt his jaw drop again. “What?! Am I selling you blackmail flowers?”.  
Malfoy grinned in delight, eyes gleaming. “Better yet, Potter. Only purebloods know this stuff. They can’t complain of blackmail in this ‘new and reformed ministry’.” He winked, and Harry’s insides squirmed again. “After all, they’re _only_ a nice bunch of flowers, aren’t they”. Leaving a galleon on the till, he picked up the bouquet and left. “Thanks, Potter!” he called out. The bell above the door jingled again, and he was gone.


	2. Good news, Bad news

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's still sad, Teddy's being the cutest kid, and there is some good news to be had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still setting the scene, no Draco in this one, sorry!  
> I have plans for at least another three chapters, and I have a feeling it's going to be at least 7 chapters long, just because I keep rambling on and adding things.

“Harry, what’s that on your face?” asked Hermione.  
Ron and Hermione had come for their near-weekly Saturday brunch. Hermione seemed recovered from her illness, and had tried to make up for her absence at Teddy’s birthday party by waking him up with an extra present –clawed socks, and Teddy had groggily hugged her in delight. The three of them used to all go out to a indistinct muggle club on Friday night, crash at Grimmauld, and then sleep in, sharing hangover potions and breakfast. Nowadays, especially since Harry had permanent custody of Teddy, Harry found he couldn’t really justify going out out as much. Plus, Marcus had never really liked clubbing, despite Harry’s need for letting go once in a while. "I want you to be able to relax _with me_ , babe!” he had always stated, and insisted on either going out to a posh restaurant –always in the wizarding district, or to bringing him round to one of his friends’ _soirees_.  
They were definitely quieter affairs than clubbing, but not in the least truly relaxing. Harry always felt on display. If the paparazzi hadn’t managed to follow them to a restaurant –a rare occasion, then one of the patrons or Marcus’ friends would always turn out to give exclusive interviews on what The Savior did in his free time. Very little, really, but enough to fill yet another column. Truly riveting content, how he would pick out the olives from his pasta! Frankly, if Marcus hadn’t wanted to go clubbing, Harry’d prefer they just stay in with Teddy, and watch a movie. But no, that was ‘entirely to common, not to say _muggle_ ’. And indeed things being _muggle_ was a sore point for Marcus too. While he was in favour of most of Hermione’s educational reforms with regard to Wizarding Studies and Muggle Studies at Hogwarts, he didn’t want to flaunt these ‘alliances’ all too publicly. Instead, he “wanted to remain open-minded and apolitical”, as was “the most appropriate for any member of the DMLE to be, isn’t it, Harry?”. And Harry thought he had to agree, since they were upholders of the law, not the makers of it. Although it didn’t sit right with him, sometimes, when he thought about it too much. Hermione had certainly looked disapprovingly whenever Harry had attempted repeat any of those sentiments.

And so, muggle clubnights were out, soirees were in, Teddy was dropped off at Andromeda’s for a sleepover, and Saturday brunches became a regular. Harry always cooked them breakfast, of course, since Marcus couldn’t and Harry didn’t feel right making Ron or, god forbid-, Hermione cooking. She was absolutely brilliant, but still a terrible cook –driving Molly to teach Ron the family recipes “before marriage!” instead of Hermione.  
“I have decided to grow a beard”, He answered, shoving fried eggs and sausage on their plates. “Toast will be done in a moment, pup”. Teddy was still blearily looking at his now steaming plate, and took small sips of his pumpkin juice. He was in his new barking-crups pyjama’s, temporarily _silenciod_ for their general sanity, and he had only one sock on. _No use dealing with that now_ , Harry thought.  
“But you never grew one before” Ron added with his mouth-full of eggs.  
“Ron!” Hermione chastised him, but also looked at Harry expectantly. He sighed. Yet _another_ worried and well-meaning interrogation. His two friends were getting quite good at them. Then again, they'd had years of training, hadn't they?  
“Marcus liked it clean shaven”, he muttered curtly, before turning around to the toaster. He felt slightly ashamed. Personally, his black beard grew in fast and to keep it smooth demanded at least two shaves a day. The benefits –Harry blushed some more thinking on _those_ , had outweighed the annoying minutes of shaving, and he had gladly complied. These days, he just felt so tired. And it wasn’t like anyone was touching his face _now_ , was it?  
  
He heard some furious whispering behind him. With a 'pop!' the toast jumped out of the toaster and he braved facing them again. He placed a piece of toast on his own plate, buttered it and spread it thickly with two types of jam. He then cut it in two, and popped it on Teddy’s plate, next to his eggs and beans. “Thanks Haz,” Teddy croaked, and set to eating. He felt Hermione’s gaze on him, and looking over, her eyes were soft. He smiled at her.  
“I’m fine, you know. It saves me having to shave twice a day, and it’s not like Neville cares.” He sat down, and poured himself some tea. He briefly wondered how often he had said he was 'fine' to them in the past three weeks. A heavy silence fell over the table, only broken by Ron's munching and Teddy's occasional hums. Hermione cleared her throat.  
  
“So. Ehm. Good, then. Well, Ron and I wanted to tell you about something.” She started hesitantly. Harry put down his fork, and raised his eyebrows. Ron swallowed thickly, and took Hermione’s hand. She blushed.   
“I’m pregnant, Harry’’. Harry stilled in shock.   
“Wow” he croaked. “Oh god. Wow!” he added, voice rising. “Mione, that’s amazing!” He jumped up and leaned over the table to hug her, smiling widely. Leaning over to Ron, he knocked over the pumpkin juice, but nobody cared, except Teddy, whose toast was now drenched. “You’re having a baby!” He laughed, clapping Ron on the back. “Well done mate!”. Teddy stared with wide eyes at Hermione, dripping toast still in one hand. “You have a baby in your belly? Like, now?!” He exclaimed. Hermione laughed loudly and leaned over to hug him, and Teddy let her with an ‘umph’.  
“Yes Teddy, you can be like a big brother to him or her!”. Impatiently, he squirmed away.  
“That is so cool!!! Is it a boy? Can I play dragon-chase with him? When can I meet him?” he started asking, gaining in enthusiasm , more awake than he had been before then. His hair was starting to curl in his excitement. Harry laughed at him.  
“You have to wait a bit, pup, right, Mione?”. Hermione nodded, hand on her still flat-looking stomach.  
“At least another six months, Teddy”.  
His eyes bulged. “So LONG?!” he whined, “I will be _old_ when he gets here!” He looked a bit put out. Ron ruffled Teddy’s wild black hair.  
“We’re not even sure yet if it will be a boy. It might be a little girl!”. He looked smitten with the idea.  
“I am so, so happy for you”. Harry said, quietly, while Teddy started shrieking about how stupid girls were, except for maybe Victoire. Harry went to get a cloth for the spilt juice, but Hermione gestured him to sit down. “No worries, I got it!”. She waved her wand, and the juice was cleared, even if the table cloth was now smoking slightly. “I’ve been brushing up on my household spells, you know.” Harry chuckled. “Of course you have”. He winked at her.  
“Do your parents know?” he asked Ron, who shook his head. “We told Mione’s parents yesterday, they were absolutely delighted.” He grinned. Hermione’s parents had been recovered from Australia after the war, and after intensive therapy most of their memory had returned. Whenever having visited Hermione’s parents, Ron was full of delight about the ‘inventiveness of muggles, Harry!’, and their house was now slowly gaining piles of what Hermione called “junk” but what Ron was certain he would get the hang of soon (Harry saw the comparison with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, but wisely held his tongue). Luckily Hermione’s dad was a patient man, and they had bonded over getting to know how to use an iPhone, which now everyone in the Weasley family –and Harry, carried everywhere, using them with varying degrees of success.  
  
Technology and magic didn’t always mesh well together, and the touchscreen still seemed to baffle Mrs. Weasley especially, who was always poking it with her wand, which made the screen bubble and change colour. But Mr. Weasley and Mr. Granger had hit it off spectacularly, because Mr. Granger was quite the engineer, and seemed to love magic, taking pride in his daughters’ talent. Mrs. Weasley and Mrs. Granger on the other hand, had quite the culture clash, Mrs. Granger insisting Hermione keep her own name _if_ and _when_ they decided to marry, not in any way apologizing for her daughters' lack of household skills, and being _vegan_ , of all things.  
Over the years they had come to accept that while they were very different women, they were both loving mothers. They now had tea every Monday, and Teddy loved Mrs. Granger’s muggle fairytales and children’s detective stories, which she brought with her when the kids were around for homeschooling at the Burrow. Unfortunately for Teddy, she also insisted on bringing them maths and biology homework, which Molly heartily supported, once she found such education lacking in her _Complete Guide to Magical Homeschooling for Wizarding Families_. They had plans to start on basic muggle science in the year before they were due to go to Hogwarts, and Harry was secretly looking forward to pouring over those books again. He had always had good grades in primary school, and science was one of the only classes were the teacher had actually giving him compliments.

“We’re going to tell my parents tomorrow at Sunday roast. We were hoping you were coming too?”. Harry nodded.  
“It will be fun right, Ted? It’s going to be sunny tomorrow, so we can have a fly in the backyard!”. Teddy nodded enthusiastically.  
“If you tell grandma Molly, will she make another cake?” he asked seriously, looking imploringly at Hermione.  
Hermione laughed again, “You know sweetheart, I bet she will”. Teddy grinned, looking satisfied.  
“That kid really has got his priorities straight, Har”, Ron joked at him, and Harry barked another laugh. Teddy loved his sweets just as much as Harry, and while it couldn’t be genetics, there was a family connection there. Harry remembered Remus always carrying chocolate, and it wasn’t like dementor attacks had always been imminent.  
“I’m very proud, yes.” he answered, grinning widely at Teddy, who grinned back, his hair now Hermione's bushy brown curls. God, he loved that kid.  
  
And so, Sunday roast was eaten, and to Teddy’s delight, Mrs. Weasley whipped up a quick chocolate mousse cake upon hearing the happy news, although she did lament their unmarried state, yet again. Mr. Weasley had even taken a picture on his iPhone for the occasion, and it had only taken him half an hour to do so. He was utterly chuffed. Monday passed, included maths, and Harry had helped Teddy with his calculus exercises when he had gotten home. The whole week would be lovely, and unremarkable, and he felt more like he had a grip on his life again. That was, until Thursday rolled around.  
  
“Harry dear, I’m so sorry about the news!” mrs. Picklewilly greeted him when he stepped outside of the shop to clear their front. Dustpan in hand –magic never seemed to work on some of the petals the hanging plants were leaving behind on the front step, he turned around.  
“Ehm, what news, mrs. Picklewilly?” he asked tentatively, although his stomach had dropped. He had given up his subscription to The Prophet years ago, because it would only put him in a bad mood, and he didn’t want to be grumpy around Teddy every single morning. Unfortunately, it also meant he had to find out things written about him when getting to the DMLE, and being stared at for reasons he didn’t know then, yet. While Mrs. Picklewilly wasn’t nearly as intimidating as being stared at by the entire Auror department, her shrill voice carried, and if she knew something, it was only a matter of time before the entirety of Diagon Alley knew.  
“About your old beau dear, that tall, handsome fellow”. Aha. He pursed his lips. He had to remind himself he _liked_ Mrs. Picklewilly, even if she was nosy. This week had been going so well. “I can’t believe that he dared to take up with that other fellow, that gentleman from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, you know, the one with the long brown hair. _So_ old fashioned.” _Oh no_. Harry took a deep breath through his nose, and tried for a smile. It was rather a grimace.  
“I wasn’t aware, mrs. Picklewilly.” Her eyes narrowed at him from behind her bejeweled spectacles.  
“Not aware?!” she took his arm. “Come on dear, you look a bit ill, let's go and sit down.” And without ceremony, she dragged him by the arm, into her shop, dustpan still in hand, and promptly deposited him into a floral patterned armchair next to a cramped table with a flowery teaset on. “I’ll make us a nice, strong cuppa”. And she was off, waving her wand at a kettle stuck between two porcelain vases, holding limp flowers. Harry sighed, and let himself be served tea and biscuits –not as good as Hannah’s, although not nearly as bad as the stale fruitcake Mrs. Figgs had always served him, and sipped his earl grey.  
  
“Now, dear. We need to make a plan!”. He set his tea down.  
“A plan for what, mrs. Picklewilly?”  
“To get you a husband dear, of course!” she exclaimed, looking imperiously at him from over the rim of her spectacles. Harry opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off, “or at the very least show that mr. Belby that he’s made the wrong decision!” she sniffed, and added darkly “Taking up with that tart from creatures, _what_ stupidity”. Harry spluttered, torn between indignation and amusement. He was rather glad she had pulled him off the street for this conversation. Mrs. Picklewilly rummaged a bit in the straw basket next to her armchair, and pulled out the day’s Prophet, spreading it out awkwardly over the plate of biscuits, since there was no room left on the tiny, spindly legged table. “ **SAVIOR COULDN’T SAVE RELATIONSHIP** ” the headline proclaimed, showing Marcus exiting one of his favourite restaurants, holding the arm of some guy Harry had seen around the Ministry before, but didn’t know by name.  
He was handsome, with long dark hair, looking tall and athletic, and quite frankly, pureblood. Whether it was the cheekbones or the expensive looking robes, he looked much more polished and refined than Harry could ever dream to be.  
Instantly he felt inadequate, just looking at the man. His throat closed up, and he put his cup down to keep mrs. Picklewilly from seeing his hands shaking.  
“Oh dear, it’s worse than I thought”. Mrs. Picklewilly stated, leaning over to pat his arm.   
“It’s fine really, mrs. Picklewilly.” He croaked out. “It’s been nearly a month now, you know.” She tutted disbelievingly.  
“That doesn’t mean it’s any easier, sweetheart! I still miss dear old Dick every time I look at my jars of pickles, or when I accidently crack an egg too many for breakfast.’’ She smiled slyly “and of course, it’s much colder at night too”. She winked, and Harry managed a shocked grin. “So, we need to make a plan, so that you don’t wile away in that smelly herbal shop of Neville’s, and get yourself a decent husband.” She stated decidedly. “Not that he’s a bad florist, although I must say that when I was but a young witch, there was a florist here on Diagon Alley that - ”  
  
Harry let her chatter on about florists, and dear old Dick, and tried to collect himself. She didn't seem to mind that he wasn't listening. Had Marcus already forgotten about him? There were still some clothes and toiletries of his in Grimmauld Place. Harry had held on to them, thinking that if he kept them, Marcus might still change his mind. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but he had opened Marcus’ hair potion and smelled it surreptiously when he was in the bathroom sometimes. And while he hadn’t heard anything back and all his owls had returned with his letters unopened, he hadn’t thought he could be _that_ forgettable. That he and _Teddy_ could be that forgettable. It was making him more upset to think about, and he swallowed a couple of times.  
  
“- and so, dear, I think the best option is to make sure you have a proper gentleman take you to the _Annual Ministry Function for Magical Cooperation_. Harry?”. Harry pulled himself out of his increasingly depressing thoughts  
“Yes, mrs. Picklewilly?”. She seemed more concerned than annoyed at his lack of attention.  
“I’ll find you someone, yes?” Harry stared at her.  
“For what, mrs. Picklewilly?” she put down her cup a bit heavier than usual, and it clunked against the china  
“For the Function! Honestly, ” she added exasperated “Do I need to think of everything myself?”. Harry smiled apologetically at her.  
“I’m not sure I should be attending this year, really”.  
“Nonsense!” she exclaimed. “If you are not there to rub it in their noses, the Wizengamot will think they can just sit on their fat, lazy, conservative bottoms and keep any reforms from happening.” Harry snorted and raised an eyebrow.  
“Excuse me?”, he spluttered.  
“Well _dear_ , don’t you realize, you as the Savior, the Boy Who Lived –despite being oblivious, might I add, Merlin knows how you managed, holder of the Seat of the Black and the Potter families in the Wizengamot, are still quite the only thing driving progressive laws and reforms!” Harry felt his mouth drop open again.  
“I’m sure I don’t make that much of a difference, though.” He muttered. Mrs. Picklewilly pursed her lips disapprovingly.  
“Of course you do, dear. It’s time you realize it. And get a husband, to take care of you properly.” Harry snorted again.  
“Well then, I’ll reconsider attending. _Not_ the husband’’, he emphasized, when Mrs. Picklewilly's eyes flashed. He stood up and grabbed the dustpan he’d been holding earlier, which he’d put next to the armchair.  
“It’s a start”, she said, seemingly satisfied. “I’ll figure out the rest, Harry dear. Don’t worry.”  
  
He thanked her for the tea, and went back to Neville’s shop, begging off work for the rest of the day. Neville took a look at his white face, and seemed to understand. A corner of the days’ _Prophet_ was sticking out from under the plant he was repotting. At night, after Mrs. Weasley had dropped off Teddy by floo, he made them a hot chocolate with extra marshmallows, to Teddy’s delight. He cuddled Teddy close on the couch and they watched Disney’s _The Lion King_ on VCR. His thoughts kept drifting off to Marcus, seemingly already moved on, and his toothpaste, still on the shelf in his ensuite bathroom. A mint-coloured reminder that apparently, Harry couldn’t compete with unattached, unscarred and polished purebloods. “Haz?” Teddy asked, turning to face him on the couch on hands and feet. He had his clawed socks on, and they were scratching the blanket he put over them.  
“Yes, Ted?” He replied.  
“Are you okay?” Teddy looked at him, perceptive for his nine years, reflecting Harry’s own green eyes back at him, hair sticking up on every direction.  
“I will be, pup, don’t worry. I got you.” He smiled, and ruffled Teddy’s hair. At least he had Teddy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I can keep this momentum going, updates are going to be weekly. Kudos keep me writing too!
> 
> Also, nothing against veganism itself, I just imagine Mrs. Weasley having a hard time accepting that some people will not eat her food.


	3. Press pressing, Malfoy dressing (up).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The press starts closing in on Harry, and we see a bit more of Draco (though maybe not enough?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fresh off the press! I'll be writing a second part to this, from Draco's perspective, I think. I just feel like we don't get to know him enough, but I also didn't want to 'overcrowd' this chapter. I wanted to add so much more info but it just didn't flow. 
> 
> Also, I've outlined 8 Chapters by now, but as I'm writing the story sometimes moves into a different direction, which adds to the number of Chapters. I sincerely hope you'll enjoy what's coming in the next few!

It started with Neville’s owl at breakfast, which included the day’s Prophet. Harry had just given up on convincing Teddy to wear matching socks, and instead tried to get him to eat his oatmeal, when an owl started pecking at the window.  
“But Haz, oatmeal is dis-GUS-TING” he enunciated with pleading eyes. “Look at it!” he let it splatter from his spoon back into the bowl.  
The oatmeal was cooling down and rapidly congealing, and soon enough it _would_ be disgusting. Harry was asking himself why he had listened to Mrs. Granger’s insistence on having kids eat healthy breakfasts for the umpteenth time, since it always resulted in Teddy protesting.  
The owl was now scratching the glass of the kitchen window. Harry glared at it, then recognized Neville’s small white-faced owl Mildred, and sighed, heading to the window. Teddy quickly took his chance to push away the bowl of oatmeal and grab the toast that was on Harry’s plate. “I WIN!” He yelled triumphantly, spraying crumbs everywhere. Harry grinned at him and let the owl in, untying Neville’s letter and glancing at the Prophet, against his better judgement.  
  
 **“LOVESICK RESIGNATION FOR AUROR POTTER”** , it declared boldly, showing a picture of Harry in his auror robes, leaving the ministry, obviously taken a few weeks prior.   
He inwardly cursed, and sat down to read, leaving Neville’s letter for later.  
 _‘Harry Potter, who recently took some time off from his position as an Auror, has apparently resigned in secret over being left by his former Auror Partner, mr. Marcus Belby. While not strictly forbidden, romantic relationships between Auror partners have always been met with silent disapproval. Not so much in the case of The Boy Who Lived, which Head Auror Robards called “a vote of complete confidence in mr. Potter”. This confidence would seem to be misplaced, as mr. Potter has given up his responsibilities towards the wizarding community as our Savior. Read more on the rising crime-rate in the Wizarding Society on pg. 4._  
 _Is mr. Potter really so unresponsible, or has his Gryffyndor courage left him?_  
 _Mr. Potter, who came out has bisexual after the Second Great Wizarding War…”_ Harry stopped reading.  
  
It felt like a can of worms was slowly wriggling its way into his stomach, yet again. He suddenly wasn’t at all annoyed that Teddy had stolen his toast –he wouldn’t be able to eat it anyway, now.  
He now reached for Neville’s parchment, which read:  
  
 _“Good Morning, Harry, You might not want to come into the shop today?_  
 _If so, I understand._  
 _I’m sorry._  
 _Neville_  
  
 _PS; if you do decide to come, better bring earmuffs. Also, Hannah’s made treacle tart”_  
  
Harry felt a rush of gratitude for Neville and Hannah. _Earmuffs?_ Was it necessary to repot the mandrakes?  
He debated not going, but what was he going to do at home all day? Alone? Teddy was going to go to the Weasley’s; he didn’t want Teddy to miss school. He’d just take his wriggling worm-stomach to the shop, then.  
  
He looked up from Neville’s letter when another owl tapped at his window; it was Ron and Hermione’s barn owl, Spook. He took its letter, which read in Hermione’s script;  
  
 _“Harry, have you seen today’s Prophet?_  
 _I’m so sorry it came out like this, I couldn’t do anything to stop it when I came into work this morning._  
 _The whole ministry is aflutter, Robards is trying to control any scandal from happening, but it might be too late already._  
 _You might want to reconsider giving a press conference?_  
 _I do know how you hate them, but I can’t imagine the press leaving you alone at this rate._  
  
 _Love, Hermione_  
  
 _PS you and Teddy are very welcome to come over for dinner’_ ’ below it, Ron’s wide scrawl stated ominously;  
  
 _“PPS Witch Weekly is even worse mate”_ Harry sighed again.  
  
He thought the worst had been over, with his breakup splashed all over the news two days after Marcus had left Grimmauld for the last time, smiling apologetically, leaving Harry on the doorstep feeling like he had been caught by an ambush on an easy Auror mission. By his own partner, for crying out loud. He had no idea how all of a sudden, everyone had known about their breakup. At that point, he'd only told Ron and Hermione that the two of them "weren't doing so well".  
  
Unaware of Harry’s turmoil, Teddy happily hummed to himself as he gathered his schoolthings.  
“Harry? I’m going to be late!” he exclaimed impatiently, when Harry was still sitting down at the kitchen table ten minutes later. Tedd was waiting by the floo, practically vibrating with energy.  
Harry looked over at Teddy; his hair black, a sneaky lightning bolt scar on his forehead, pleading green eyes, and crumbs all over his shirt. The mismatched socks were shoved into his purple boots, and he was hopping from one foot to the other. He wondered if Tonks –Dora, had had the same energy as Teddy when she was younger. He’d have to ask Andromeda later, when they went round for dinner this Friday.  
He dredged up a weak smile for Teddy, and got the floo powder from the jar by the fire. “Let’s go, pup”.  
He didn’t meet Molly’s eyes when he dropped Teddy off, giving her a quick murmer of ‘thanks’ before waving at Teddy, and flooing to Neville’s shop.  
  
It became immediately clear why Neville had told Harry to bring earmuffs –and he had forgotten them. The sound of the press outside of Neville’s shop was deafening. There were bangs and taps on the windows, shouts for a reaction or his name, and multiple camera flashes.  
The light inside the shop was dimmed, probably to prevent the press from taking any good pictures of him. Behind the till, looking pained but determined, wearing baby blue earmuffs, was Neville.  
He looked up when he saw Harry enter the shop from the floo, and smiled at him. “Ever the Gryffindor, right?” said Neville, over the racket from the windows. Harry shrugged, and gestured to the mob outside.  
“How long have they been here?” He asked, speaking up so Neville could hear him, feeling already tired. His stomach was grumbling unhappily, having forgone breakfast.  
“Oh, since seven this morning". Neville answered loudly, clearly not hearing himself over the muffs. "I haven’t switched the sign to open yet, actually. Need to figure out how to stop them from coming in first.” He hummed a bit, considering. “Any suggestions are welcome, really”. Harry groaned and rubbed his eyes under his glasses.  
“What a nightmare. If you’d rather I go?”. At Neville's raised eyebrows, he repeated the question, louder this time. Neville shook his head, and took off the earmuffs.  
“I don’t think that would work, Harry. They've already seen you, now. How about we get some tea first?”.  
  
Leaving the reporters where they were, they went into the back, where Neville put the kettle on, and they settled down. It was much quieter in the back, between the more tropical plants, furthest from the storefront. Two cups of strong tea and a frankly disturbingly large piece of treacle tart later (Harry was suspicious of a plot to get him to eat sweets, if not other things), Nevillle and Harry had decided to put up a ward around the side of the shop to keep the noise from outside out, and a sort of screening around the doorpost for any and all recording material; Harry had thought of the Muggle anti-theft gates at stores, and modified a monitoring charm from his Auroring.  
Neville then proceeded towards the door, where the now muted mob was still pressing in on the shop. He switched the sign to ‘open’, and the first reporter reached for the door handle, opening the door about a foot. Harry held his breath.  
  
Nothing happened.  
  
Or rather, a lot of things that should have happened, simply _couldn’t:_ The reporter obviously triggered the monitoring charm on the doorframe, which _zinged_ a little, and then activated a repelling charm. The reporter –a short, portly man with a staunch red mustache and a bushy frown in green tartan robes, was unable to proceed into the shop. He opened his mouth in protest, but his splutter was lost; he was pulled back into the _silencio_ -barrier from the windows. Neville smiled and looked relieved. He straightened up a bit, and said politely “Sir, could you please make room for any real customers coming through? We have a strictly no-reporters policy today, I’m afraid.”  
Harry laughed as the man blustered back, looking supremely aggravated. The next reporter, a young witch with blue braids and revealing violet robes tried, and failed again. Silently shrieking, she fell back on the street, looking outraged. The reporter after that, a thin, pale wizard with floppy blond hair, held his camera in his outstretched hand behind him, and came furthest inside the door, before he too was repelled again outside on the street.  
And so, the morning went on, Harry and Neville drinking tea and watching the reporters trying, and failing to work around their restrictions. While still wracked with guilt for bringing this on Neville, it was also remarkably satisfying.  
By the time lunch rolled around, the number of reporters had dwindled to a few desperate and frantic looking witches and wizards, who had gotten themselves cups of hot tea and chairs to sit on. They had clearly decided to wait it out. Slowly, other customers had come trickling in, and while they had all looked curiously at Harry, they had refrained from asking him any questions.  
The day passed, the amount of treacle tart dwindled some more, and just before closing, the amount of reporters had as well. They would be back, Harry thought, or lie in wait elsewhere. The ministry, perhaps.  
  
They were just about to close, when the doorbell jingled and a hurried voice sounded;  
“ _So sorry_ , but could you please wait with closing. I’m rather in need of some flowers!”. Harry looked up, and stared. It took him only slightly longer than usual to find his voice.  
“Malfoy!? What are you doing here? Again?”. Harry caught Neville’s eye, who shrugged and quickly disappeared in the back of the shop, murmering about “checking the flaming fungi”. Harry snorted, and turned to really _look_ at Malfoy.  
His cheeks were flushed, and he was fussing with his hair, which was obviously windswept. And Merlin, he was wearing a _muggle suit_. A three-piece, teal suit, the waistcoat embroidered with _golden snitches_ , including a golden pocketwatch. A quick peek at his feet revealed soft leather brogues, and just underneath his pointy chin gleamed a bright blue silk tie. He looked stunning, if flustered.  
Raising his eyes back to Malfoy’s face, he noticed a pink blush spreading over his nose.  
“ _Potter_. You again.” He sneered, and the stilled moment broke. Harry smirked back.  
“Yes, Malfoy. We’re just about to close, so - ” Malfoy quickly interrupted him.  
“I know! I just need some flowers, imminently!” He exclaimed again, slightly frantic, looking ready to stop Harry physically from throwing him out. “I was held up at work and I really need to bring flowers to dinner to placate mother so she’s -” he started rambling, before stopping himself abruptly. His blush deepened, and he coughed awkwardly. Harry snorted again.  
“Fine, Malfoy. Want to pick them out yourself?”. Harry came out from behind the till and led Malfoy to their flower buckets. Malfoy nodded.  
“Let me think…". He was leaning forwards to the flowers, which instantly reacted to his presence -or magic, as they had done before. A faint smile appeared on his face, as if pleased . He tapped a slender finger on his chin while his gleaming grey eyes surveyed the display. After a moment, he nodded to himself. "I’ll take three pink peonies, seven of these white roses, and some of that lullaby-singing baby’s breath”. Harry started gathering the stems as Malfoy talked.  
“Would you like them to sing a specific lullaby?” he asked.  
The baby’s breath was enchanted to sing a variety of songs, and customers were able to choose what songs they sang. Malfoy nodded appreciatively.  
“I’ll have them sing “The Astronomer’s Dream”, if you can?”. Harry hummed his assent, and at the till set to instructing the little flowers to sing the right song.  
“These are for your mother, then?” he asked, not able to contain his curiosity any longer.  
Malfoy smiled a little deprecatingly. “Yes. As I mentioned, I am already late to dinner, and she has reason to be cross with me”. Harry glanced at Malfoy’s face, trying to gauge his mood. His curiosity got the better of him, after all.  
“Mad? Because you’re wearing _that_?”. Malfoy laughed, out loud, a light and joyous sound. Harry wondered if he had ever heard it before, and decided he mustn’t have; he would have remembered.  
“Well spotted, Potter.” He straightened up, and stroked his waistcoat. “She doesn’t enjoy the way I dress to dinner, no. But it’s not that.” He said, in a quiet voice. Harry had finished binding the flowers together, fluffing the leaves a bit. He was vying for time, now.  
“What, then?”. Malfoy took the bouquet, and Harry rung up the number. Malfoy paid, looking Harry straight in the eye. His blush was gone, and he looked rather pleased with himself.  
“Wouldn’t _you_ like to know?”. He winked, and walked out. Harry absolutely did _not_ notice Malfoy’s arse in those trousers. He did _not_. 

But as he closed up shop, Neville asked what Harry was smiling about, and he couldn't really answer that question, either. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you like it?  
> If you spot any inconsistencies/typos, please let me know in a comment <3  
> 


	4. Pink Cheeked and Pink Peonies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We see things from Draco's perspective. He works at W.E.I.R.D. with Hermione, has a penchant for muggle suits, and is still ever so much the Slytherin we know and love/hate. And dear lord, Potter has a beard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally here!  
> I rushed it, because I'm going away for a time at the end of next week and wanted to upload something before leaving.  
> 

Draco sipped his tea slowly, casually looking over Hermione’s schedule for the next two weeks. He was certain he had to drag her to at least two more tailors to find her some new dress robes for the upcoming Ministry Function. While he couldn’t deny he liked her smart muggle-style suits, for the Function she needed to turn the heads of some of the more old-fashioned members of the Wizengamot, and prove she could indeed move amongst the sniffy purebloods. Prove that she knew what things mattered to them as well, and was accommodating.  
Hermione, as Department Head for the Wizarding Education, Information and Reformation Department –its unfortunate acronym being W.E.I.R.D, was working towards a larger societal reform of which the campaign would start just after the Function. Draco had accepted Hermione’s offer to work for her after she had accepted his stumbling, shamefaced apology for everything he had ever done to her and let do to her.  
While their cooperation had sprouted from grim-faced determination to start over and a shared vision for a better wizarding society, they had become fast friends. Since working together, they had managed to introduce a new curriculum for Muggle Studies, and a Wizarding Studies class for all muggle-borns in their first year, equally open to wizard-raised children. Hermione had claimed it would have helped many a student navigate their world more easily.  
While there was still a long way to go to expand on the curriculum, it had turned out a success; muggle-born children reported better adaptability in classes that asked for intuitive magic, like potions and transfiguration. Hermione claimed it was due to a better sense of the ‘developing wizarding self’ or some nonsense. She had even gone as far as to introduce two school-counselors to Hogwarts, as an addition to the medical staff. The next step was evening seminars for muggle parents, to better understand their children and the world they were sending them into.  
A lot of things had changed after the war. Not just wizard-society’s sense of security, cohesion, and pride, but equally, the relationship between the Ministry and Hogwarts. A new wave of cooperation and democratization had slowly crested. While Wizengamot members still decided on educational decrees, school governors had been replaced by a real, muggle style PTA, who served as a check on Wizengamot reforms. Membership was free, Wizarding ancestorship not required. Yes, a lot of things were different. Better, even.  
  
He set his tea down, and tapped a few appointments with his wand, so they’d show up highlighted and on Hermione’s personal planner. He proceeded to send a few memo’s to his undersecretaries, and then got up to visit their research department to check on their progress with regards to 'wizarding citizenship'. It was all part of their new project. Their main researcher was a young, bright Ravenclaw, just graduated from Hogwarts. She came highly recommended, and Draco secretly thought of her as a naïve, young Hermione. Strangely enough, Hermione didn’t like her would-be clone. Draco secretly thought it was because she didn’t like anyone competing with her own bookishness. Although he’d never dare say it out loud; that was what Ron was for, after all.  
Draco sniggered a bit at the thought, then walked up to Jasmin.  
“Good morning, miss. Lacewell”. She started, and turned, looking slightly flustered.  
“Good morning, Secretary Malfoy” she answered brightly. She was always early, sometimes even earlier than him. He could spot the ink stains on her fingers. Still a quill-user, then -pens had become more _in vogue_ recently with progressive wizards. But she was no stranger to muggle things; he knew she also loved her stapler and sellotape, and a deft hand at using computers too, something that still occasionally baffled Draco, despite the classes he had taken at his local community center for the “digitally challenged”. Which apparently had only included elderly muggles, and Draco, the pureblood wizard.  
“I wanted to check up on how the preliminary report was coming along, miss. Lacewell”. She flushed and turned to her piles of paper on the desk.  
“Oh, yes, no problem, let me just get…” she ruffled between a giant pile that had to have been stabilized by magic so it wouldn’t tip over, and pulled out a bright orange envelope. “this!” she exclaimed triumphantly. He flicked it open, and nodded approvingly.  
“Looks good. I see that you are integrating the research from Montréal University as well. ” He hummed a bit, and handed it back. “How did you find the muggle statistics?” he inquired, giving her a small smile.  
“Oh! Well, they were fascinating really, I combined them with Belamy’s Numerological Theorem and the results….” She prattered on, and Draco nodded, noticing small things about the report, her research methods, and her. He by now knew she was the youngest child of five, a wizarding family, not pureblood. She had a quiet ambition, but not enough self-esteem or some Slytherin arrogance to back it up –yet, he thought. Her clothes betrayed a sense of frugality, as did her packed lunches, which he knew she took with Madam Beauregard, their Legal Council.   
Clementia Beauregard was a formidable witch who, due to an unfortunate marriage and oldfashioned laws, had lost her own seat on the Wizengamot. Madam Beauregard could be gruff, but her sense of fairness and justice were her main motivators, and he thought Jasmin would do well to learn from her. Her beaky nose -not unlike the late Professor Snape's, was capable of sniffing out legal fallacies like not other, and she had survived both wizarding wars to come out with a complete lack of patience for uselessness and inefficiency. Groveling was utterly beneath her. Draco had immediately liked her, even if she called him ‘young Malfoy’, still, after years of working directly under Hermione. Hermione had said she was like Headmistress McGonagall, only without the tartan robes and a mouth full of legal-speak.  
After having given Jasmin a smile and encouragement to keep up with her excellent work –and could she forward that article on nationality and self-realization, please? He checked on other witches and wizards in his department.  
Hermione’s department really, but this was _his_ floor. His territory, and he watched it like a hawk. Would protect it fiercely too, which it would come to soon, when their newest plans would be presented.  
He checked on Tommy Matheson, who worked on the muggle literary canon in Hogwarts, looking to extend it to movies with a technology called “Blu-Ray”, whatever that might be. Draco had a ‘television’, certainly, but his “VCR” player had gathered dust ever since he bought it years ago –metaphorically of course, since he wouldn’t abide actual dust in his apartment. Even Ron had recently stated that “VCR” was old fashioned when he and Hermione had come over for dinner, and he should move on to “DVD”’s before “he turned into a crusty old pureblood dragon” for real. Draco huffed a bit at all those nonsensical letter-combinations. At least Wizarding acronyms usually made sense. And he was definitely not a “crusty old dragon”, no matter how often Ron called him that. He owned skinny jeans, for crying out loud (although they were designer, _of course_ ).  
  
He continued his round, and chatted to Melany Whitehawk, who was in charge of a smaller subdepartment which monitored the establishing “Wizarding Web”. It functioned much like the muggle internet and was their fastest growing sub-department. They were currently discussing cooperation with MACUSA for it. He inquired after her little son, whom Melany and her partner Parvati had recently discovered was a Squib, rattling their little family. He promised to have dinner with them soon, and discuss the benefits of muggle public schools with them. He made a mental note to contact their own educational subdepartment for the latest information on muggle education. And so, his morning went, chatting to his and Hermione’s employees, learning not just the state of their work but also the state of _them_ , of what bothered them, if they had an opinion on certain matters in society, getting his feelers out for things to use for their next campaign; a connection, a weak spot, a chance for lobbying. Today, when they saw him approach, some flurry ensued, papers put away before answering his greetings. He noted it, but chose to ignore it; it'd come out anyway. Tucked it away for Hermione, later.  
Perhaps the most useful thing for Draco to do as Hermione’s secretary was not planning her schedule and campaigns, but listening to the ministry gossip mill.   
And feeding it, occasionally.  
  
He eats lunch at his desk, ignorning the well-mannered snob living in his head insisting that it is crass, prepared some reports for Hermione, and then gets up to take Hermione to their next meeting.  
The door is closed, which isn’t unusual. Hermione needs quiet to work properly. She used to use silencing and blocking charms, but it made her too hard to reach, even when they were all pulling faces in her doorway and waving around like lunatics in the hallway. He knocks on her door, firmly.  
“Come in!” Comes her voice from inside. She’s bent over, her curly hair already fizzling out of her bun, but still looking sharp in her navy pantsuit, opals glittering in her ears, eyes sparkling with furor as she pours over the documents spread out before her.  
He steps in, closing the door behind him, and takes a seat. He has patience, knows not to break her concentration. But they need to be leaving soon, and he doesn’t want her to fall back into her work for half an hour again, so he clears his throat subtly. She jumps, as if already forgotten he was there.  
“Oh! Yes, Draco, I’m sorry”. He smiles faintly at her.   
“No problem, Granger.” She smiles back, albeit a bit strained. He narrows his eyes.   
“Is something wrong?” He flicks his gaze to her stomach.   
She told him about the pregnancy five weeks in, when he found her throwing up her lunch in the office trashcan one afternoon. She was barely showing at this point, although pencil skirts had now made way for sensible pants with magical seams. It wasn’t widely known yet, as she didn’t want the press harrowing her for details. Three months is, after all, still early days, especially for wizarding pregnancies.  
Hermione smiles knowingly at him. “Nothing with the baby. Aside from Ron putting pillows on everything I dare sit on, and Molly sending over pies every other day, I’d say it’s been wonderfully boring”. Indeed, Draco could see a quilted cushion on her desk chair, in typical Gryffindor colours, including little lions embroidered on the top. He smirks at her. Typical.  
“What has you worried? Not the meeting then, I hope? We know what to expect”. Hermione stills, and he sees her eyes dart to something on the corner of her desk. He motions to grab it, but she beats him to it.   
“Don’t, Draco. It’s awful”. She pleads. But he’s seen regardless; there no mistaking that those were the papers everyone was secreting away earlier at the department.   
Spread open is a _Witch Weekly_ , proclaiming the headline **“The Boy who Lived, or The Boy Who Can’t Deliver?”** , showing pictures of Potter and Belby embracing, and one of a beatifically smiling Reginald Edgecombe, Belby’s new lover.  
“What’s this, then?” He drawls, raising one eyebrow at her. He can feel the frustration radiating from her, together with worry.  
“Oh, it’s so awful! That lying, conniving -” she pushes a hand through her hair, puffing it up even more.  
“We all know Potter and Belby broke up, Granger. It’s not news”.   
“It is when Reginald suddenly invents a _scandal_. Based on _nothing_!”. She lets go of the magazine, and he finally grabs it.  
“My _my_ ,” he tuts, as he reads “Harry doesn’t measure up to the size of his fame.... Savior needs to be saved in bed-”  
“he has nightmares! How could they make fun of that!” she exclaims angrily. He ignores it as he reads on, but even he feels wronged –nightmares come with the territory of having been in the war, Draco knows all too well.  
The article goes on, writing in bold things like “expectations of a _top_ auror”, “Hard to be with, until nothing’s _hard_ to be with” and so on. Draco breathes out through his nose.  
“How vile”, he sneers at the magazine in disgust, and Hermione huffs again.  
“I wish they would stop, you know. You wouldn’t believe how many reporters there are hounding him since it happened”. Well, he could certainly believe it. He’d seen them standing in the atrium, waiting to meet an auror, or Belby, or Robards, for comments ever since the infamous Auror Partner’s Romantic Breakup was published in The Prophet. He just hadn’t known there was also an article like… this. And now Hermione was worried, just before she had to meet the Conservative Faction that pillock Edgecombe was also part of. Bollocks. This was hardly a coincidence. If he wasn't so angry, he would have admired their tactics. He deliberately unclenched his jaw, which took some effort.  
“Do you want me to move the meeting?” he offered. It would push things back a bit, but he could.  
“No. I don’t want to give them the satisfaction. Nor giving them a reason to think I’m weak or ‘overemotional’ once the news of my pregnancy comes out.” He nods approvingly. “Good.” He uncrosses his legs, and stands up. “Now, I’ll go make you some tea to drink, you’ll put on a nice pureblood robe, and we’ll go talk those bastards into cooperation. Agreed?”. She smiles at him gratefully.  
“Yes yes, you firedrake”. He laughs, and steps out quickly for some chamomile tea, making a mental note to get some pregnancy-safe calming draughts. They’d need it before long.  
  
The pureblood Wizengamot members all had insufferable smiles on their faces when they entered the room. He felt Hermione square her shoulders, and keep her tone professional. Pleasing, even, if you didn’t really know her. Their eyes note Draco’s muggle suit beneath his open robes, their disapproval clear. He sees them trying to glean whether or not Hermione is upset about her best friend being targeted again, multiple _Witch Weekly_ 's peeking out from some of their bags.  
This meeting isn’t about their upcoming vote; it is clearly meant to destabilize them, make them feel up against the odds. Well, their department might be new, but they were _not_ to be intimitated into submission. Two could play this game, and Draco had developed an iron-clad backbone since the war. He wouldn't cow again.  
Thus, Draco muses, as Wizengamot member Rattlesby drones on about the importance of pureblood rituals at Easter, they will not win. Blaise had recently informed him that Rattlesby lost a considerable fortune dabbling in the trade of magical creatures –potentially the illegal kind. And, as the meeting draws to a close, he decides he’ll put his own little feeler out on the others, just to wipe the smirks off their faces. He’s sure Lawrence will find something, dig long enough until something nasty shows up. They’re purebloods. Draco knows as no other how many horrible little secrets can be hidden by a good name and a sheen of tradition.  
Lawrence was a veritable blackmail-niffler. Born a Squib, he never received magical education at Hogwarts, although Draco was sure he would have been an excellent Slytherin. Clever, with a wicked sense of humour, Lawrence was what the muggles called a “private detective” –while still at uni, studying something called “Database Administration”, whatever that may be. Legal reform had made it easier for Squibs to navigate in the magical world, although they were still a marginalized and often discriminated against minority. Something he hoped to change, in due time. He'd love to see what Lawrence was capable off given proper education in the Wizarding world.  
Given his status, Lawrence seemed invisible to purebloods; they deemed him so unworthy of attention, that they never paid heed to what might be learned with tiny voice recorders and muggle technology. After all, what could a Squib do, really? Especially one so young, so guileless, so enamored with magic… all fake, of course.  
They’d met in a muggle bar –the kind his mother wasn’t allowed to know about, and Draco had laughed at his attempts to flirt. He’d then proceeded to show Lawrence just how to go about it, Draco sponsoring his venture with lots of vodka, and they’d been friends ever since. And working together, should the need arise.  
Looking at Hermione’s anguished expression after the meeting, there certainly was a need to give him a call soon. “Why don’t you go home early today, Hermione. I can clean up and close the department for tonight, if you want”. They walk back to her office, the sky on the magical windows already turning dusky and pink. She bit her lip, looking at the stack of reports on her desk.  
“Are you sure? I could look over the _Magiweb_ folders still, I know Sally is having trouble with-”  
“ _Merlin_ woman, do you ever rest? I can check in on it, you just go.” Hermione shoots him a grateful smile, as she swings her robe over her chair, and pops loose the bottom button on her jacket.  
“Well, fine then. Owl me, if there’s something urgent?”. He nods.  
“Of course, Granger”. Not that he will. She always overworked herself, and Ron will have his head for interrupting dinner for his pregnant wife.  
He’d never pegged Ron for a mother hen, but it’s certainly the title that fits best. Auror Weasley, fussiest father to be. Although from the stories he's heard about Molly Weasley, perhaps it runs in the family.  
He starts cleaning up the desks, labeling the files his own filing system, and putting them away. He’s just about done, contemplating a cup of tea and a quick look at the _Wizard Wireless_ file, when he feels his wand buzz. _Oh no_.  
He had forgotten, the alarm set for the time he should apparate. Had forgotten it was Thursday, the day set for family dinner. Forgotten why he had even put on one of his favorite Muggle suits this morning, carefully chosen. Had forgotten his mother was feeling cross with him over rejecting yet another witch. And worse, he had forgotten to get his mother flowers, to mollify her.  
  
“Bullocks!” he jumps up, throws his robe off over the chair, and quickly locks up the office, turning off the lights as he goes. It’s late, and everyone’s left their desks. With a sweeping motion of his wand, all the papers on all the desks line up in neat stacks, chairs are pushed in, and devices –Magical and Muggle, are switched off. A blessed silence descends on the department, and taking on last look, he runs to the elevator to take him down to the apparition points. Flowers first then –an apology for more than one offense.  
  
He rushes to Diagon, and apparates in front of the shop just minutes before closing time. Cursing himself for his absentmindedness, he steps inside the shop, which mercifully hasn’t yet locked the door. “So sorry, but could you please wait with closing. I’m rather in need of some flowers!” He exclaims as he crosses the threshold, quickly straightening his waistcoat. His eyes look up to find the cashier.  
“Potter. You again.” His eyes land on the darkened jawline, now decorated with the beginnings of a beard. His eyeballs nearly fall out of their sockets. Dear lord, Harry Potter has grown a beard. Or a three day stubble. _Oh no_. Whatever, he tells himself. He definitely doesn’t notice how good he looks, how it accentuates his jawline. He does NOT think Potter is hot. Definitely not. He feels himself colour, and hates it.  
There only one solution this his embarassement; he sneers at him. Harry smirks back.  
“Yes, Malfoy. We’re just about to close, so - ” Draco quickly interrups him.  
“I know! I just need some flowers!” He exclaims again, frantically now. The thought of his mother’s disapproving frown prompts him to blurt out “I was held up at work and I really need to bring flowers to dinner to placate mother so she’s -” he finally manages to stop himself. Merlin, how embarrassing, he must be beet red at this point. Harry snorts, but allows him to pick a bouquet before closing, adding in the lullaby-singing baby’s breath that he knows his mother loves.  
The “Astronomer’s Dream” is a lullaby special to the Black family, and his mother taught him this old, traditional song as a child. It is a winding, repetitive song, about the ever changing and ever moving constellations, and the astronomer who loved them so much he spelled himself into the north star to follow.  
He briefly wonders if Potter’s godson, his cousin, has learned it; if Potter knows it.  
He frowns at Harry as he sets the spell on the flowers, but figures asking is impertinent. He wonders too, at how it is that _Harry_ sodding _Savior Potter_ is binding his bouquets, instead of hunting down dark Wizards, looking unaffected when the press is keen on embarrassing him and hounding him at any turn. He inwardly cringes at the _Witch Weekly_ article. He had read it in Hermione’s office, while she pursed her lips disapprovingly. He'd felt repulsed by the malintent. He suspects Hermione is the one who gave their staff one of her “I will burn you alive with fire” looks when they had started their Savior gossip today. Which is why no one dared show it overtly, or gossip about it. Thank Salazar, because the article, well, it _was_ truly awful.  
Clearly Belby liked to kiss and tell to his new lover, Edgecombe, about what had displeased him so much about Potter –especially in the bedroom.  
And Edgecombe had turned to the press, gleefully listing all the reasons why Belby had left Potter for him. The article had claimed to want to congratulate the new ‘power couple of the ministry’ –Draco snorted at that, because while Belby was an esteemed auror (and patented arsehole, apparently), Reginald Edgecombe was a weak-kneed pureblood, vain, and part of the conservative faction in the Wizengamot he had met today. Edgecombe had voted against House-elf liberation, against renewed classification of magical creatures, and against removing pureblood supremist books from the Forbidden Section of the Hogwarts Library. Draco had little good to say about him, although he had to admit the man had fabulous hair. Sure, Draco was vain. But he kept _private_ affairs _private_. As was _proper_. But apparently Edgecombe's pureblood pride extended only so far as his vanity allowed him; had wanted to show himself better than the Savior.  
Draco’s temper flared in distate, and he looked up again at Potter. Potter, who was quietly ringing up his mother’s bouquet. He took in the disheveled hair, the dark smudges under his eyes, the tight set of his jaw. The wrinkled muggle style henley, stained with soot and dirt. Maybe not completely unaffected, then.  
“These are for your mother, you said?”, Potter finally asks.  
“Yes. As I mentioned, I am already late to dinner, and she has reason to be cross with me”. He feels Harry’s gaze linger a bit, taking in his appearance overtly. He tries not to preen; he loves this suit, the colour making his skin glow and his hair shine.  
“Mad? Because you’re wearing _that?_ ”. Draco can’t help it. He laughs. Potter stares at him. He raises an eyebrow, stares back.  
“Well spotted, Potter.” He straightens up, strokes the snitches on his waistcoat. “She doesn’t enjoy the way I dress to dinner, no. But it’s not that.” He says quietly. No, it wasn’t just the muggle suits in bright colours he took to wearing to family dinner every Thursday, although it definitely annoyed mother. Harry had finished binding the flowers together, fluffing the leaves a bit. This time, it had to do with him rejecting yet another potential bethrothed.  
He’d taken one look at the lovely, blushing, frilly robes wearing Miss. Rosewood, and removed himself from the restaurant. It wasn’t as if he rejected them for merely being female; they couldn’t do anything about his preferences, and he would maybe set them aside for family's sake –although he hadn’t decided on that yet.  
“What, then?” Potter probes. Draco takes the bouquet from Potter. Potter couldn’t know his dilemma; that he had to marry a bride to appease his mother, fulfill his duty as heir, or break with tradition, with blood, to live his truth, with no way to return. He wouldn’t decide yet, either way. And so he wouldn’t marry a frilly witch, and keep disappointing his mother. And he wouldn't proclaim himself yet. Not even to the Savior, looking at him curiously, his green eyes sparkling. Not even if he dared look so handsome with his cursed beard.  
“Wouldn’t _you_ like to know?” he answers, and winks. Potter gapes at him as he turns, and leaves the shop. He can feel Potter’s eyes on him, and he’s still trying to contain his victorious mood when he apparates to the Manor’s front door, Tippy the house elf letting him in.  
  
His mother gives him a small smile at the flowers, and kisses him on his cheek. “You’re late, darling”, she says. Her lips are pressed together in disapproval, but she takes his arm and leads them to the dining room, handing over the bouquet to Tippy to put in a vase.  
After soup and introductory topics have been passed over, his mother finally comes to the point. “We need to do something about your situation, darling”. She states, dabbing her lips with her napkin. Draco looks at his mother’s stern face. No use trying to pretend he doesn’t know what she’s referring to, then. He sets his spoon down.  
“I am aware, mother”. His stomach clenches slightly. He reminds himself they have this conversation at least twice a year, ever since the war ended, and father was 'put away'.  
“Was she not to your liking, then?”. Oh god. He couldn’t say it. Not _now_.  
“She was very beautiful, mother” –even if she was lacking some vital parts. And maybe a beard. Damn Potter!  
“Was she not intelligent enough for you, then?”. Yes, the sense not to wear frilly robes before Easter.  
“I did not speak with her long enough to pass judgement, mother”. He keeps his hands still, knowing how much his mother hates his restless fidgeting.  
“Well then, I cannot but notice that this season alone you have rejected both the Greengass girl and the Rosewood girl. Both excellent matches, if I may say so myself.” He feels his mother’s burning gaze on his face, and wills himself not to blush. His cheeks are doomed today.  
“You have chosen excellent witches, mother”. Tippy brings in the next course, quiche with green asparagus, and they fall silent once more, eating in small bites.  
“Is there any witch that could convince you?”. Oh no. Did she just…? Of course his mother _knows_. But there is a difference between _knowing_ , and _knowing_.  
He tries to keep from spluttering, grasping for an answer.  
“I am not sure I could be convinced currently, mother”. Narcissa delicately places her fork down again.  
“To marry a Rosewood, a Greengrass, or even an Oakwald?”. He can hear the smile in her voice.  
“Are you lecturing me in botany, mother?” A smile blooms on her face, making her look younger, more like the mother he grew up with, despite the perennial sadness still lingering in her eyes.  
“I understand, darling. Let us say no more of it, for now”. He slowly blows out his pent up breath, and attacks his quiche with gusto.  
His mother launches into another conversation, about some Janine Livingstone, who apparently married some shop owner called “Picklewilly” –talk about ridiculous names, really, who are they kidding? – who wrote to her after all these years with the most _interesting_ news.  
Draco tunes it out, humming here and there, and eating as quickly as he can without being impolite. The betrothal situation has been averted, and he suddenly feels very tired. He doesn’t notice his mothers bright, fond eyes.  
He doesn’t notice how she looks at him with plans swimming in her head as she kisses him goodnight.  
Because surely, while his mother _knows_ , she doesn’t really _know_ , right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Draco, if only you knew what was coming for you!
> 
> I'd love to hear if you like this perspective. I love Draco as a character, although he's not as snarky inside as he seems on the outside, to me. I also can't wait to see Draco interact with Teddy. I have some scenes planned... if you want them? 
> 
> The next one might be late, so this one is longer than usual. Hope you enjoyed!


	5. Family Weekend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little at home time for both Harry and Draco. Just fluff!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I am extremely late. After I got back from holiday I took a bad fall and have been unable to sit up -i cracked my hip ever so slightly, and boy does it hurt. Been feeling loads better this week and so I quickly wrote something small to tie you over to the next one, which will be a lot more exciting than this one!

Standing on a little step, Teddy was beating eggs furiously with a fork, bits having already flown into his currenly fuchsia coloured hair. His eyes were his own honey-colour, and with his scruffy play-clothes, he couldn’t look more like the incarnation of both his parents. _The Doors_ were spinning on their old record player, and Teddy was making up his own lyrics while singing along –badly. Harry was in the process of mashing the banana’s for their banana bread, hoping to at least come close to Ron’s version.  
Harry insisted Ron was cheating, having Molly’s recipes when he wanted them, but their current attempt was a favourite recipe of Mrs. Picklewilly, and he had utter faith in her. She was beyond picky with the preserves and pickles she sold, so she must know a thing or two about cake –or banana bread, in this case. If this failed, he would ask Hannah, who had surprised him with excellent blueberry crumble last week in Neville’s shop.  
He might fail to make a proper dinner for himself every night, but at least he, and by extension Teddy, were well provided with homemade sweet goods. Of course Molly would hand him homemade pies every day of the week if he let her, but he flat out refused to let her see how much it cost him to keep things going. Especially after the Witch’ Weekly article, which still made him feel like crawling up in a corner forever. But he had Teddy, who relied on him, who would yell at him to pay attention when he made a match-stick bridge and wanted to light it up (he’d put paid to that idea just in time), or when he was nagging at Harry that he didn’t want to have cereal for dinner the third time in a row.  
This morning, Teddy was in high spirits –he loved banana bread, especially the cinnamon glaze, and Ron was bringing French toast, so his morning couldn’t get any better really. “Done!” Teddy yelled triumphantly, and handed Harry the bowl of the beaten-within-an-inch-of-their-life-eggs, ready to be mixed in with the bananas, and dry ingredients.  
“Right-o, Ted. Let’s get this banana bread in the oven.” He used his wand to fold the mixture, poured it into a cake-mold, then put it in the preheated oven. Teddy was already dancing away, having found some flags lying around in the kitchen and waving them, his pink hair flopping in all directions.  
“Now, young man! You need to get changed, before Ron and ‘Mione get here, okay?”. Teddy, still twirling, yelled “I knooow, I’m going, I’m going!” and bounded upstairs, no doubt picking out yet another eye-wateringly bright outfit. But Harry couldn’t complain, since he was the one buying Teddy all that he wanted, however ridiculous. And it wasn’t like he had any fashion sense himself.  
He briefly thought back to Malfoy in his suit, beautiful and stylish, but so decidedly un-Harry that he just _knew_ he’d look wrong even if he ever dared try one on. Turning to make himself a cup of coffee, he heard some loud bangs coming from Teddy’s room upstairs. His smile turned into a grimace, but he wasn’t about to run upstairs to check on whatever ridiculous situation Teddy had set out to make those noises.  
A few minutes later, Teddy came running down the stairs noisily, finding Harry had sat down at a set-table, nursing his already half-empty coffee cup. Pumpkin juice was sitting on the table, and the kitchen was slowly filling with a warm, banana-y smell. Teddy had delivered on Harry’s prediction, wearing various shade of –of course- banana yellow and vibrant green, clashing horribly with his still fuchsia hair, to his own obvious delight. His eyes, Harry saw, had switched to Harry’s own green, but his hair was for once neatly brushed to the side. All topped off with his purple boots, still a favourite.  
  
The floo flared to life, and Ron and Hermione tumbled out onto the carbet in the kitchen. “Hi, Harry, Teddy!” Hermione greeted him, and went to hug Teddy. She looked a bit strained, but very much off-duty in an oversized Cannons jumper –Ron's, obviously, but the orange blissfully faded, and dark jeans. Different from her business attire that was a grown-up version of her studious school-uniform, and more like the post-war Hermione who valued comfort in her private life, the one she built with Ron. Their home reflected this also; their walls might be lined with overstuffed bookshelves –organized by both category and author, indexed with Hermione’s own system, but it was also cosy. Picture frames depicting many Weasley’s and their friends stood in front of the tomes, and oftentimes spare cups of leftover tea could be found scattered about the shelves; where Hermione had left them, looking for a book –and forgotten all about them.  
Ron might have finally succumbed to learning household spells, but he still wasn’t the most attentive to what to him was 'useless fussing'. Their floors were covered in fluffy carpets, the couch muggle Ikea, and it had a distinctly “Gryffindor common room” feel to it. Vastly different to how Harry and Teddy occupied Grimmauld Place.  
Sure, Harry had cleaned it extensively, and it was now littered with Teddy’s toys and things, but the only truly redecorated rooms were the previously gloomy kitchen, the hallway that now housed not a single elf-head, and Teddy’s room. The second floor and attic had been shut up since Kreacher passed, the house simply being too large for two people who were hardly at home –Harry at the Aurors, and Teddy at school, to maintain. The kitchen had been done up in a skyblue wallpaper dotted with white flowers, the wooden mantle and cabinets refinished in a warm tone, and a comfy couch added to one wall. A sagging one, found shoved in the back of the attic when Harry had set to explore the house he’d inherited after the war. He’d had it reupholstered, figuring he could deal with the little snakes carved into the woodwork, but drawing the line at the _Toujours Pur_ embroidery. He himself had taken up what had been Regulus’ bedroom on the first floor, leaving Sirius’s as it was. He still visited it sometimes, especially when having a hard time with Teddy, or recently, Marcus leaving.  
  
Teddy’s room was at the end of the first floor landing, up a few steps, and was –as to be expected, a riot of colour. The walls were done in a tasteful minty green –when Harry had taken over care for Teddy when he was three, he figured the calming tone would be best, but over the years Teddy had made it his own. Stuffed animals were lying everywhere, as were uneven socks. Tacked on the walls were drawings, little memorabilia Teddy liked to collect –tickets from the movies or the zoo, magazine clippings of muggle robots, and above his bed, a picture of Tonks and Remus, holding a little bundle with changing blue and pink hair, Remus looking up in delighted disbelief, Tonks full of pride and love, glancing from Teddy to Remus. Harry ignored the stab of grief in his chest every time he saw it.  
All in all, the house was livable, but not overly homey. Not somewhere you'd want to be, all alone, rattling about. Harry figured he’d get round to redoing it someday, really. When Teddy was older maybe, or –and he cursed himself now for being so sentimental-, with someone else, expanding their little family. But he could forget about all of that, what with the horribleness of the Witch’ Weekly article, and Marcus’ lousy scribble saying “ _sorry about the article_ ” on stained parchment, which came by delivery owl just yesterday. No mention on that dirty scrap of paper of Harry’s previous owls, asking what had gone wrong, what Harry could do better, or even his desperate attempts to lure him back with his remaining posessions. The house could wait, at least until Harry wasn't so bloody exhausted all the time anymore. When the rooms didn't feel like broken visions of lovely future anymore.  
  
Harry put it firmly out of his mind as Hermione and Ron bustled around the kitchen, Ron with a loaf of bread and a sealed tupperware box of gloopy batter, and Hermione busying herself with some tea. Teddy was of course supervising the making of French toast, even as the smell of banana bread started to take over the kitchen. Saturday brunch was shaping up to be a delicious one, and a much needed reminder of how lucky has was.  
  
\----  
  
Draco spent Sunday with his mother at the Manor, having the uneasy feeling he was somehow missing something. His mother looked inordinately smug with something, and he had no clue as to what it could be. She had only just told him she would stop finding him more lovely potential brides to turn down, but she had undoubtedly found something else to keep herself occupied with. Something concerning _him_ , he had no doubt.  
Uneasily, he stirred his tea again, careful not to let the spoon touch the edges of the fine porcelain cup.  
“Dear, I hear wonderful things about the work you and miss Granger do at your department. I wish you would tell me more about it.’’ Draco fought not to raise an eyebrow, and sipped his tea slowly. Too sweet, and already tepid. Knowing very well his mother only liked his job insofar as it improved their family name, he knew his mother bringing it up must serve another purpose.  
“Do you now, mother? Very well, let me tell you about this new research we have set up concerning muggle education…” and so he went on, talking through what the department was working on, especially relating the missed opportunities for Squibs by enrolling them in regular Muggle education.  
His mother might not like or personally endorse all of the proposed reforms, but she was decidedly more mild than her husband in her views.  
She would not want to intermingle overtly with muggles, nor much see the real point of Squib integration into Wizarding society, but she didn’t herself see her own ‘superiority’ as a pureblood Witch as a reason to exclude others on purpose, or more, try to exterminate them like Voldemort had tried.  
She had too much manners for that, and, though loathe to admit it, too much humanity. She was part of the Wizarding War Orphan Foundation’s board, organizing fundraising events. She knew how much the war had cost, quite literally, and had sided with a cause she could actually empathize with; children.  
When the Manor was still being rebuilt after the battle, more than one orphan had found its way into the manor’s bedrooms and stayed for weeks, if not months. Occasionally those children would come for sleepovers, bringing with them their various guardians, of all types of wizarding stock. Mother, with all her stuck up tendencies, spared no expense in accommodating them. He knew she kept a little notebook with all their allergies, preferences, and birthdays; sending them lovely little gifts when the day arrived, too. Yes, his mother had many faults, but her capacity to love children was perhaps her greatest gift.  
“Also dear, while I have agreed to hold off the good families for now, I was wondering who you were planning to bring to the Function in a couple of weeks?”. Draco had trailed off on relating the details of Shelly’s report, and now pursed his lips.  
“It’s a working night for me anyway, mother. I need to guide Hermione to the right people. A date is superfluous.” He took a little cucumber sandwich, popping into his mouth. Lovely, that. The manor elves -freed, and rehired, of course, were rather excellent cooks. His mother raised an eyebrow.  
“Are you really?” she tutted disapprovingly. “I would think it a prime opportunity to try and find someone who might…. hold your interest better than any of the lovely _girls_ I’ve presented you with”. Draco swallowed, forcing the blush creeping up his cheeks to recede.   
“I’m sure any company I’d bring would be utterly bored, watching me work a room and try to flatter the old crowd, Mother”.  
“Maybe you should find someone to do it _with_ you, dear”.  
“What are you saying, mother?”.  
“Just a suggestion, sweetheart”. Draco hums noncommittally, and finishes his tea.  
Yes, his mother was definitely planning something. He would figure it out, and soon. He didn’t truly believe her when she had promised him not to set him up anymore. Perhaps he ought to watch the guest list of the function, keep an eye out for any pureblood girls in attendance. And avoid them like the plague. 


	6. An interesting proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione asks Draco a question, and he gets an interesting proposal from an unlikely source.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised this was more action packed and then I started writing and now that action is in the next chapter. But! Hermione/Draco friendship! Draco being cool with a Squib! In another suit! Yes?

Hermione turns this way and that, looking slightly awkward standing in front of the mirror in pinned-up robes.  
“I _do_ like this colour on you, Granger. And please stop fussing.” Draco was sitting, long legs crossed in front of him, in _Resplendent Robes for Reverent Occasions_ , just off Diagon Alley. It was but the first dress appointment they had, and that of no less than three shops. Hermione sighed, and rubbed her stomach again.  
“I’m just worried. In another month, they’ll all know and see, especially if I’m wearing robes like this!”. She was right, the deep red robes were gathered artfully around the waist and remained tight in a fashionable drop-waist style. Her stomach had only the slightest curve, nothing remarkable yet. But in five weeks that would be noticibly different, at the Annual Ministry Function for Magical Cooperation.  
“Indeed,” Draco nodded, but he didn’t share her apprehension –or at least, had resigned himself to the fact. “You do realize you will start showing at some point soon, do you not?” he drawled.  
“Oh hush! Of course I do!” she exclaimed, looking slightly panicked.  
“And you’re distressed about?”, he prodded lightly. She hadn’t shown this much anxiety since telling Draco the news, from which point he had already started planning for the eventuality; the inevitable questions, announcements, and –at some point far, far in the future, at least to Draco’s hopeful mind, her maternity leave.  
“Well,” she sighed again, pushing her hair out of her face, puffing it up even more. “Whatever I am going to wear, this isn’t it!” she tugged again at the fabric hugging her lower stomach, and turned back towards the dressing room. The salesperson helping them who had kept a discreet distance, rushed forwards to help her out of it. Draco, sensing some sort of explosion coming up soon, debated whether to follow her or not, but given the nature of her distress, he thought it best to follow her and try talk her down. Even if he shuddered thinking of the exact details of exactly what was going on with Hermione. Or anything to do with how Ron had gotten Hermione in such a state. Dear lord, no thoughts of that presumably freckled arse. He approached the dressing room’s velvety curtain.  
“Granger, calm down. We are only here to see about a robe. If you don’t like it, we’ll go somewhere else. We have an appointment this Wednesday at Twillfitt and Tattings.” He used his most soothing voice, the one he reserved for calming horses on the estate, when they were restless.  
“Argh!” came from inside the dressing room. “I couldn’t care less about robes, really, Draco!”. She poked her head through the curtains. She looked a less like the efficient professional she wanted to portray at work, and more like the frazzled passionate bookworm from their Hogwarts days. It was strangely endearing. He let a slight smile linger on his lips.  
“Not those robes, then. Duly noted, Granger”. She sighed again, turning back to get dressed in her suit.  
“It’s just!” she started, and Draco discreetly muffliato’d their corner of the shop. Better safe than sorry, even if _Resplendent Robes_ had an excellent reputation for discretion – one of the reasons he chose to dress Hermione with robes from this particular shop. They could talk work and not have their conversations blabbed about to The Prophet, or other such rags. But what he could sense coming now was far more personal.  
“Well, you know this whole thing with Marcus and that stupid pillock he’s dating now,” Draco suppressed a sigh.  
“I know, Granger”  
“And you should see what it’s doing to Harry! Especially after that horrendous article in Witch Weekly! He doesn’t even!-” she gained in volume, opening the curtain with far more fervor than strictly necessary.  
“He doesn’t even _what_ , Granger?” She buttoned up her jacket, adjusting the magical seams ever so slightly.  
“He doesn’t even talk to _us_! Not to me, not to Ron.” She took a deep breath. “I’m just so _worried_ , you know. He doesn’t let on, but resigning from the Aurors! And I can tell he’s not eating properly.” Draco nodded. Potter was fast approaching “peaky” looking, if not “post war harried and starved”.  
“I’ll do something about that Edgecombe, you know. In my own way.” Granger looked up at him, a slight sheen to her eyes. He pursed his lips slightly at her hopeful expression.  
“Not for Potter, you know. But because of our bill.” Her brown eyes held his for a moment.   
“As always, thank you, Draco”. He nodded curtly, and checked his pocketwatch –a silver Black Heirloom, coming of age present from his mother’s inheritance. Just gone twelve.  
“Why don’t we head out for some of that awful carrot cake you keep craving instead of lunch, and see about our plans for the announcement, agreed?”. A tentative smile crept over her face.  
“Couldn’t agree more. I’ve something else I need to ask you, too”.  
Already dreading the carrot cake and what other odd plan she must have concocted, he followed her out and to the muggle bakery she so loved.  
  


* * *

  
Mind still reeling from his conversation with Hermione, he apparated back to Diagon Alley. Lawrence was waiting for him at their usual meeting point to the side of Gringotts.  
“Looking fancy there, Drake”, he whistled, and winked. Draco could feel a twitch in his face at the nickname –he’d tried to get Lawrence to stop calling him that, but the more he did, the less it worked. He raised a single shoulder in nonchalance.  
“Casual work attire, Lawrence. With an added side benefit of annoying all the conservatives.” Lawrence grinned at him, always delighted to hear gossip about the state of Wizarding politics.  
“How’s your boss, Drake?” he asked. Lawrence knew Hermione, if only in passing. Hermione didn’t approve of his employing Lawrence, since he was supposed to be a fulltime student, and he wasn’t to “corrupt the young”. She didn’t know how they had met, and that it wasn’t Draco who had initiated any sort of ‘corruption’.   
“Let’s go somewhere to talk. Apparition okay with you?” Draco asked him, and held out his royal blue clad arm.  
“Sure, Drake-o” Lawrence grinned, and took his arm. Frowning, Draco apparated them to an apparition point just behind the National Portrait Gallery. Close by was their usual café, set somehow charmingly in the crypts of a Muggle church. The atmosphere had always reminded him of the wine-parties in the Malfoy Manor winecellars, and too, of the subterranean coziness of the Slytherin common room.  
He greeted the waitress and they sat down, Lawrence to a frankly frighteningly large tuna-mayo sandwich, Draco to some peppermint tea. He waited until he had finished at least half of it, before starting their conversation.  
“I have a new little job for you, if you’re interested.” Swallowing another bread mass audibly, Lawrence turned his sharp brown eyes on Draco.  
“I’m always interested”, he said, looking mischievously. A little mayonnaise was clinging to the side of his mouth.  
“Although I did promise Granger not to interfere with your schoolwork, and you have that project going on?”. Lawrence waved a hand impatiently.  
“I’m nearly done with that. Just waiting for my idiot partner’s share of the work.” He took another large bite, then continued “It was easy really, I just had to modify some other automated tool I used before, and the prof’s happy enough already”. Having no idea what that all meant –his computer class for the digitally challenged didn’t cover enough, clearly, he started to outline the current situation leading up to both the function and the bill.  
“ … and I could really use some leverage, you see.” Lawrence nodded.  
“Do any of those use computers or cellphones, by any chance?”. Draco cocked his head, thinking it unlikely. Or they might, without knowing how to use them. Draco refused to think of himself of being in the same category. Yes, he might be pureblood, and computers weren’t his forte, but he had taken a class! With elderly Muggles! _Surely_ he was better than them. Plus, he had a Lawrence, who had secured his ‘laptop’ computer to the nines.  
“I have home addresses of them”, he offered. He knew most of the conservative members from old, had had to study their family trees since he was little. The Malfoy’s had even intermarried with many of them throughout the centuries, although no one wanted to admit that now, of course.  
He suppressed a shudder thinking he might be related to that arse Edgecombe, or that truly awful Prescott. Maybe he should check up on that, seeing if watery eyes and bald patches were in his future.  
“Your Ministry doesn’t do any privacy regulation stuff?” Lawrence inquired. Draco raised his eyebrows questioningly. “It’s all over the news on our end. Good business for me, you know” he grinned. Lawrence still said _your_ Ministry, as if he wasn’t part of the Wizarding community. In a sense he wasn’t, of course.  
Abandoned as a child to a Muggle orphanage, only to have discovered his heritage when one of his aunts came back after the war to discover her nephew had disappeared, never to be spoken of again, when her sister discovered she had birthed a Squib. Apparently Lawrence’s biological mother cared more about wizarding blood than family; her younger sister Angeline clearly didn’t.  
‘Aunt Angie’ gave him a place to crash when he was inbetween student-housing accomodations. Gifted him care-packages, but wasn’t allowed to coddle him all that much. Their relationship was complicated, but they checked in on eachother.  
“I happen to have visited some of their residences as a child, actually.” Draco could practically see Lawrence tucking this interesting tidbit somewhere in his remarkable brain. Lawrence didn’t write anything down that Draco told him. He had an incredibly precise memory; notebooks were only reserved for uni work, not the idle jobs that Draco gave him. He’d remember the names he gave him, and all the little nuggets of overheard conversation –often verbatim, and secret dealings.   
“Say, Drake." He started now, obviously having some sort of idea lodged in his head, ''What’s up with that Harry Potter guy? So much rumours everywhere, it’s like he’s a scorned maiden or something.” Draco grimaced.  
“Yes, the whole Wizarding community is all agog with jilted Potter.”  
“You know him, right? Went to school with him?” inquired Lawrence, trying to look innocently interested.  
“Yes, I did.” He was feeling a bit apprehensive now. Lawrence was licking his fingers, now. No tablemanners whatsovever, of course.   
“And?” Lawrence prodded.  
“I’m sure you know about the role I played in the war, Lawrence. So you can imagine we weren’t best mates on the quidditch pitch, before.”  
“He’s friends with your boss though. Are the rumours true?”  
“I couldn’t _possibly_ know what rumours are abound about Potter. _Do_ be more specific, Lawrence”. A small, horrific smirk was beginning to form on his narrow, tan face. Oh no. That meant Lawrence had scented blood. No use for it now.  
“I heard he has grown a beard”.  
“That appears to be so. And?” An insistent blush was trying to creep up his cheeks. Oh _no_.  
“Is he cute?”. Draco refused to splutter. Very well.   
“Would you like to meet him?” he countered therefore. Now smiling broadly, wide teeth gleaming, Lawrence nodded. He was _so_ going to regret this.  
“Alright then. Let’s head out.” Draco threw his napkin on the table, along with some bills to cover the cost of their refreshments. They didn’t mind his sudden departures here; Draco was an excellent tipper.  
“What? _Now?_ ”. Draco scoffed: as if Lawrence hadn't planned this from the start.   
“Come along, nosy parker.” Straightening his jacket, furtively casting a de-creasing charm on his pants, he made way for the door in swift steps. Lawrence scrambled up from his seat. They apparated to the nearest Diagon apparition point, in an alleyway just outside _Eye of Newt Potions Ingredients_ , and walked over to Neville’s flower shop, _Spectral Sprouts_. He could feel Lawrence practically buzzing with excitement. They were almost to the door when from behind, a crooning voice came “Oh, is that you, young mr. Malfoy?” Draco whipped his head around so fast his neck cricked.  
People recognizing him on the street wasn’t unusal, but the ones who wished him well were still quite few. He preferred not to have confrontations out in broad daylight. He peered at the source of the voice, and saw a rather harmless-looking elderly lady in flowery robes standing in the doorway of “Pot, Kettle, Pickle”, the crockery shop across the street. She tapped her foot impatiently.  
“Yes, you, young man! I’d recognize you everywhere!”. Draco sighed. Not wanting to be rude, he made his mind up to see what that was all about. Lawrence was staring in between Draco’s expression of slight distaste, and the rather insistently gesturing elderly Witch. She looked rather deranged, flapping her arm to gesture him closer.  
“Alright, Lawrence, why don’t you go meet Potter in there. Perhaps pick up something nice for miss. Clarke”. Lawrence rolled his eyes.  
“She’s called Angie, you pillock.” But he took the sickles Draco held out, and went inside, making the doorbell jingle.  
Draco stepped towards the witch, already regretting his decision to leave Potter to Lawrence’s mercy.  
“Good day to your, Mrs..?” He inquired politely, dredging up a small smile.  
“Picklewilly, dear. It _is_ Mr. Malfoy, isn’t it? Do come in, we’ll have tea, of course”. Which Witch would ever consent to being called **pickle-willy** was beyond him. He sighed.  
No one had greeted him with such enthusiasm in ages, especially not those who only addressed him by his last name. Curious despite his caution, he stepped inside the shop. It smelled like musty flowers and suprisingly, vinegar.   
"Do sit down, Mr. Malfoy," she gestured to a chintzy chair, and then quickly shuffled to the back and started rattling with cups and saucers.   
He was served tea in a blue china teaset, decorated with little black swallows. Clearly mrs. Picklewilly was sharper than her flowery looks made her seem. They perfectly matched the little black swallows embroidered on his blue waistcoat. Not just a batty old lady, then.  
“No use dithering around, I suppose. It is good I am seeing you now, dear”. Draco frowned. What an odd way to start an aquintance.  
“My apologies. Have we met before?” Draco ventured cautiously.  
“Of course not, dear!” she exclaimed, rattling the spoon in her cup. Seeing the look on Draco’s face, she winked at him saucily.  
“I know your mother dear, Narcissa. From Hogwarts, if you must know. We were in the same house, if not the same year.”  
It took all his pureblood training to keep his jaw from dropping. Never before had he met an old acquaintance from his mother’s, that was so, for lack of a better word, _ordinary_. Not stiff, or supremacist, or truly insane like his aunt Bellatrix. A Slytherin in flowery robes, how quaint.  
His mind was suddenly abound with all the things he never dared ask his mother. She had never spoken to him about her time at Hogwarts, apart from relating details about her early courtship with his father, which started when she was in sixth year. But never about the things he wondered about; had she been nervous about exams, had she stayed up at night gossiping with the girls in her dorm? Who was her favourite teacher? Did she ever fret about bad grades as Draco had? But now was clearly not the time to ask this near-stranger about all of that. It would betray much about his relationship to his mother, and he didn’t want to cause his mother discomfort trying to find out about things she didn’t want to share. So, sat here in front of him was a woman who was a veritable well of information, and he couldn’t touch it until he knew her angle. The Malfoy pride was a fragile thing, especially so after the war. This Mrs. Picklewilly seemed to read all that in his face, and smiled at him, blue eyes twinkling.  
“Don’t be so frightened dear. I want to propose an idea to you, is all.” Draco crossed his legs elegantly, leather shoes shining in the dim shop light.  
“Very well then. I will hear it.”  
Mrs. Picklewilly cleared her throat, and then stated “I’d like you to take the young Mr. Potter to the Ministry Function.” Silence fell. What?  
“I must’ve misheard.”  
“Don’t play stupid, Mr. Malfoy. Your mother assured me you weren’t”.  
“You’ve contact with my mother?” No answer from Mrs. Picklewilly. “You may ask me why, dear.”  
“Very well, why would I take Potter to the function?”.  
“You need more support for your department. It is no secret that it requires a large budget, most of which comes from old money; old families that feel thwarted because of your recent reforms regarding pureblood education.”  
“Having Potter on my side wouldn’t help me convince them. He’s a symbol of reform.”  
“Is he, now? The Potter’s were an old pureblood family, as I’m sure you know. Potter has never been active in taking his seat in the Wizengamot as the heir of both the Potter and Black houses.”  
“You want to force him?”  
“That is such an ugly term, Mr. Malfoy. I want him to _see_ , and to learn.” Draco hummed, and let the silence stretch. “And indeed it wouldn’t hurt your more progressive supporters either. As long as Mr. Potter starts playing the game. He has no idea”.  
Draco thought it over. Setting aside his personal feelings for Potter, he was inclined to agree. Hermione had urged Potter at first to participate. But postwar Potter had been tired, grieving. Not in the least inclined to do something with the family titles he was bestowed. Then, a few years after, the Lupin boy had been thrust into his care, and combined with his career as an Auror, Potter had left politics to politicians. Even Hermione couldn’t sway him, though some of their campaigns were funded by the Potter vault, Draco knew. Potter’s most overt political alliance had been with that horrid Belby, who had tried to force Potter into uncomfortable interviews, aiming to get him to agree with his own opions –all the while claiming neutrality as law-enforcers. What a two-faced prick. Belby’s tactics obviously hadn’t made Potter more agreeable to his cause; He had left to find another, more agreeable and influential political player in Edgecombe.  
“What would you gain then, Mrs. Picklewilly?” he mused, tapping his finger on his pointy chin. She huffed.  
“How Slytherin of you, to suspect I have something to gain.”  
“How Slytherin of you, not to betray your own intentions” he countered.  
She laughed at him, and he could see behind the fluttering elderly lady she portrayed a clever Witch, not nearly close to retiring in any sense.  
“I can promise you, it wouldn’t harm you, Mr. Potter, or your department in any sense. That is, if you keep your wits about you, and an eye on that hopeless Mr. Potter”. He snorted, growing more comfortable with her. He decided he liked her; she reminded him of Pansy, if with less fashion-sense, and a lot more wrinkles.  
“Very well then. I’ll take it into consideration”. She smiled broadly at him.  
“Good. Now shoo, go rescue poor Mr. Potter from that creature you sent into Neville’s shop. Don’t think I didn’t see the glint in his eyes!”. Creature? A regular busy-body, more like.  
But indeed. He should go and rescue his own dignity from Lawrence sharp eyes, especially concerning his feelings towards Potter. With a nod, he left her sitting in her chintzy armchair to meet Lawrence on the street, flowers in hand, smiling like the cat that got the cream.  
Oh _Merlin_. That couldn’t mean anything good, least of all for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cafe I described actually does exist (Next/underneath St. Martin-in-the-fields, in London), although I took liberty with the menu items.  
> I also feel like the story is going ever so slowly, but I can't seem to speed it up, since I want to enrich and embellish, even though not all details are relevant to the plot. I hope it's not too distracting, and actually enjoyable.


	7. Odd Deliveries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry delivers a lot of flowers with cryptic messages, and Draco starts executing some plans -some of which involve Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Hope you're all well? Crazy times we're living in. If you're bored of quarantine (good for you, you healthy human!) here's something to tie you over.
> 
> Latin explanations are at the bottom; so too, are the meanings of the flowers in this one. I did take Latin in school but admit it's been too long and I looked all of it up. I also don't actually know of floristry (it's all made up generally anyway, like any good cultural phenomenon), but I have a source I'm consistently using, and I'll just stick to that.

  
Harry looked over the latest order. Luscious red rhododendrons, branches of vermilion snapdragons, and, oddly enough, some detoxified Nightshade*. Neville allowed them in bouquets after hitting them with an advance depoisoning charm –one of his own inventions. Neville was currently working on their string-of-pearl plants in the back, which instead of _stringing_ new, gleaming pearls –real ones, unlike their Muggle equivalent, new ones simple _fell off_ their strings, scattering all over the floor. Expensive plants, those were. Wanted as potion ingredients, show-pieces in terrariums, and as of lately, jewelry. All the rage amongst the Muggle-borns, deemed an animal friendly alternative to other pearls. Neville had started growing some just before Hannah fell pregnant, but still had a hard time keeping them healthy, let alone grow a variety of different colours. The red and purple bouquet was due at the Ministry, as had a lot Neville’s orders lately. He had disillusioned himself several times to bring them in, not wanting to be haunted by both the press nor other Ministry workers. Occasionally he stopped by at Hermione’s office, or went to chat with Ron.  
He called out to Neville that he would be out for delivery, disillusioned himself, and went to Apparate to the Ministry.  
The Ministry was, as ever, buzzing with activity. There were some reporters loitering about in the Atrium, but not many more than was usual. Relieved no one could see him, he made his way to the elevators, and pressed the button for level three, where the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures was situated. He checked the card again, to see who to ask for, and he suddenly felt very heavy. _Shit. Merlin fucking shit_.  
The card read:  
  
 _“To Reginald Edgecombe_  
 _Sub rosa nescis**_  
 _D.L.M”_

He almost hit the emergency stop button, panic spreading through his body. He forced himself to breathe in deeply and count to five. He could do this. He was an Auror!  
Well, ex-Auror, officially, but he still had all of those skills. He could transfigure his face into someone else’s, so he wouldn’t be recognized. He could, and then he would be just another delivery Wizard. But his Gryffindor courage, and hell, his _pride_ wouldn’t allow him to. He would see what bastard had thought to lure Marcus away, and with it, his hopes for a normal family. He took off his disillusion spell, making the little Witch next to him jump and squeak. She hadn’t seen him enter, obviously. She seemed to be one of those who were so shocked by both his fame and his sudden disappearance that she was temporarily struck dumb. That suited him just fine. He briefly regretted his scruffy clothes, complete with some stray twigs, but at least he had on the Spectral Sprout apron, a cloudy grey embroidered with dark blue leaves, hand sown by Hannah, who was surprisingly crafty.   
He found Edgecome chatting to another collague. Without announcing himself the department, he walked up to Edgecombe, looking pristine in traditional navy robes, his long brown hair lying smooth and shiny over his back.  
“Flower Delivery for Reginald Edgecombe.” He stuck out the bouquet, and hated that he had to look _up_ to meet that bastard’s face. He knew his own face was set in a scowl, and tried to reign it in. He didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Edgecombe slowly turned towards him, and Harry could see the moment he recognized him. A slow smile, reeking of superiority, was slowly taking over his handsome face.  
“Ah, a flower delivery boy, how wonderful.” Harry huffed.  
“Be a dear and put them on my desk over there.” He didn’t even make it a question; full of condescencion. Before he turned to the desk, Edcombe plucked out the card, and froze.  
His eyes flicked to his collauge, looking at him with raised eyebrows, then to Harry, watchful. “Is this your idea of a joke!?”. Harry let confusion show on his face. Of course he didn’t know who it was from, although he had an inkling. No, he only knew for sure that whatever the card meant, it had thrown off Edgecombe, and he now had the upper hand.  
“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.” he answered therefore, trying not to look like he was enjoying this.  
Edgecombe tried to draw himself up even taller, and looked down his patrician nose at him. Well, that wouldn’t work on Harry. He’d known many a pureblood prick, thinking of a tall one, very blond, and very unimpressive in spite of all that. _And_ he’d faced down Voldemort. Really, Edgecombe was _nothing_. -But for the fact, that small little _humiliating_ fact that he had taken Marcus away from him.  
“It is not funny, Potter”. Ah, he had called him by his name. Another point for Harry.  
“Enjoy your delivery.” Harry said, with a beautific smile. It cost him, it sure did. But he could see the polite nod cost Edgecombe more. Putting the flowers down on the closest surface, he hid his shaking hands by fisting them, and quickly made his exit.  
“But Reg, what’s the note about?” He heard the collaugue asking curiously.  
“Mind your own business, Chester!”. And it pleased Harry immensely to hear an anxious tremor in that plummy voice.  
  
\---

‘Dromeda came by Grimmauld with chicken stew that night, and they had a lovely cosy evening. She tucked Teddy in, even if he was ‘too old for it’, and Harry was happy to keep the leftovers. That would mean another hearty dinner tomorrow, no takeout or ready-meals, or the more likely cereal. When Andromeda came downstairs, he had lit the fire and poured some wine.  
“That’s lovely Harry, thank you.” He smiled at her.  
“Did he make you read Tony the Dragon tamer’s Rhyme too?”. Andromeda laughed, smoothed her shirt.  
“Yes, he did. Even though I had to pretend to force him into it because being read to is apparently shameful for a nine year old. His words were “If you really reall want to read to me, I’ll allow it, grannie” Oh, he’s so precious”. Her smile made her wrinkles stand out, the grey strands in her brown curls shining in the candle light.  
Andromeda had taken care of Teddy for the first few years, but the war, losing her husband and daughter, had taken much from her. It happened sometimes with Wizarding couples, who were traditionally bonded. One’s magic–and life force-, could fade from the force of a broken heart. Not fatal usually, but the truly bonded would always feel ‘less’. Not even Teddy, cherished as he was, could make up for all that loss and hurt. Last year Luna had taken up room in Andromeda’s house, which Harry knew was a wonderful support. Harry thought Luna’s quirkiness filled the house with whimsy and good energy, without asking anything from Andromeda.  
They chatted about Luna’s latest project in the garden, crossbreeding saltwater Plimpies with ordinary strawberries, and Teddy’s progress in school. She was so proud of his reading skills, and held his newest drawing of a red racing car in her lap. Undoubtedly that would be hung up, pride of place in her house, next to all the others.  
She cleared her throat delicately. “Don’t take it badly Harry, but I can’t help but notice a few things.”  
Oh shit. This was one of those conversations again, wasn’t it.  
Like the one Molly had with him no less than four times already since the breakup, the one he saw in Hermione’s eyes, and even Ron had started one with a clap on his shoulder.  
“I’m fine, really, truly.” He therefore started off, as a preemptive measure.  
Andromeda’s dark eyes took him in sharply. “I’ve no doubt you will be, Harry.”  
“Good” he took another swallow of wine, the bottle given to him by Hermione. It was quite pleasant actually, nothing sour.  
“But I remember little Dora coming home after a boy broke her heart, and it took longer than this, sweetheart.” She sipped at her glass, lips shiny from the liquid. “Oh, how she cried. Inconsolable for many weeks, until she was allowed to join the local muggle Karate class.” He could hear the smile in her voice.  
Harry cleared his throat. He didn’t know what to say.  
“If you'd allow me, I could take care of that frankly enormous pile of laundry in Teddy’s room. Bring in some groceries. Even some quick cleaning spells, if you’d let me.” She’d raised an eyebrow at him, but not in critique. He sighed.  
“I’m so sorry, ‘Dromeda. I’m just really bad at all that stuff, you know”. He rubbed his tired face, and felt his newly acquired beard. At least he didn’t have to shave.  
“Oh hush! Don’t apologize. How about I just come by tomorrow again, and do just those little things, yes? And I’m sure Luna would also love to help, whatever that would mean.” She snorted a little. Harry looked her over, her face marked by grief, her kind eyes.  
He would never let Molly, but maybe he could let Andromeda.  
“Not Luna, please.” Andromeda smiled widely, knew she had won.  
“Wonderful! Tomorrow, I’ll pick up Teddy at Molly’s, and we’ll go to the grocer’s together. He does still love riding that cart, doesn’t he?”. Harry groaned regretfully.  
“oh yes, he does.”  
“Perfect.” She took the last sip from her glass, and stood up. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, Harry.”  
Harry stood up to help her in her robe. “If it is too much, use your phone, alright? I’ll come get him immediately”  
“I’ll be fine, Harry. And I’ll send a Patronus if needed, not use that weird little device you got me.”  
He grinned a little at her. “Teddy knows how to use them. Don’t waste your energy on a Patronus.”  
“Yes yes, _I’m_ worrying about _you_ here, just let me!”. They grinned at eachother.  
“Alright! Thank you. There, now, sleep well, Andromeda.”  
“Good night, sweetheart. See you tomorrow”. In a flare of green flames, she had gone.  
  
\--

Wednesday saw another delivery, this time a very strong smelling arrangement of goldenrod, sunflowers, thyme and fennel***. The note said:  
  
 _“Shelly McKinnon,_

_Counting on you as always_   
_Viriliter Age^_

_D.L.M.”_  
  
Delivered to said Shelly McKinnon, a blustery man in his mid thirties, taking his lunch. Harry had transfigured his features for the occasion, not wanting to be caught by the renewed press-efforts to photograph him in his new job. The Witch from the day before had given an interview to the Prophet – _“From Golden Boy to Delivery Boy”,_ and while the shop was still secure and its customers surprisingly loyal, he had still managed to be photographed in Diagon when he had stepped out to have tea with Mrs. Picklewilly.  
Upon receiving his rather uniquely smelling bouquet, Mr. McKinnon had a very different reaction to Edgecombe. He was obviously _delighted_ , reading the little note with a self-assured nod and a little hum of confirmation.  
“Thank you, chap!” he exclaimed upon seeing Harry’s transfigured self behind the large bouquet. He eyed the apron. “Spectral Sprouts, eh? Isn’t that where Harry Potter has fled to? You know ‘m?” he inquired.  
“We have different shifts, actually.” He answered curtly. “Have a good day”, he said politely, and with a nod, left. By Godric, if people started to remember the name of Neville’s shop, they might have to figure out some new ways of keeping the nosy-parkers out. Though it might be excellent for Neville’s business. He made a note to bring it up when he got back.  
  
  
Andromeda came home with a hungry Teddy, carrying groceries and looking a little worn, even if she was smiling brightly. Harry had _just_ managed to vacuum the kitchen and living room, but not tackled the laundry at all, having come home only an hour before. He’d set the table too, for three.  
“In here!” he answered from the kitchen, and quick footsteps brought Teddy bouncing into the kitchen, straight to the refrigerator.  
“Haz, I’m sooooo hungry! Can we eat _now_?”. He had opened the Tupperware box with leftover chicken stew, sniffing it appreciatively. Harry gave him a tired smile.   
“Hey, Teds. I hope you behaved, hm?” he ruffled Teddy’s black hair, relieved there was no imitation scar hiding underneath this time. Andromeda sighed deeply and set down the shopping bags in the hallway.  
“Hello, Harry. We went to your Muggle supermarket, Fresco’s or something? If you both help unpack we can start cooking rightaway. We can make pot pies with the chicken stew, that’ll be quick”. He nodded at the suggestion.  
“Come on, lets help your gran so we can start cooking, right?”. Teddy complained, but obediently set to shelving the things he could reach first. All in all, it become another lovely evening. The potpies were a success, with Teddy eating seconds, and Andromeda had even brought chocolate pudding for dessert, a treat for Harry and Teddy both.  
Harry took Teddy up for a wash before bed, and when he came down to the sitting room, he saw Andromeda on the blue velvet couch, nearly nodding off. Gently, he approached her and shook her arm.  
“Hey, ‘Dromeda? Maybe it’s time to head home.” She slowly opened her eyes.  
“But I haven’t even gotten to the laundry yet!” she yawned. Harry smiled, hand still on her shoulder.  
“Thank you, for what you did today. We really needed that, Teddy and I. Dinner with family.”  
Andromeda’s eyes softened, and she stroked his face. “Of course, sweetheart. I did too, you know.” She patted his cheek before releasing him, elegantly sliding off the sofa. “I like your beard, by the by. Suits you.” He smiled in gratitude. She flood home, and too tired to do anything, Harry went to bed as well.  
  
  


Thursday came without delivery orders, but delivered a Malfoy to the door. He stepped in elegantly through the door just after noon, clad impeccably in yet another three piece suit: A dark, nearly black violet, only betraying colour when caught in the light. His silver embroidered waistcoat was decorated with intricate curlicues, and a silver chain must hide another pocket-watch in his pocket; his cravat was a silvery silk. Gleaming black shoes completed the ensemble. Harry’s eyes traveled upwards to Malfoy’s face, whose eyes were intent on Harry’s. Harry hoped he wasn’t blushing –caught staring (appreciatively) at Malfoy, of all people, was not something he wanted him to know. Malfoy gave a quiet cough.  
“Potter, good afternoon. You’re still here, I see.”  
God, what a prick, no matter how well dressed he was.  
“Yes, Malfoy. What do you want?”. He put down the pruning tools in his hands, lest he be tempted to stab Malfoy with them.  
“Tut _tut_ , Potter. It wouldn’t do to estrange one of your best customers, would it?”  
Malfoy approached his counter, looking derisively at the display of Sleeping-Sachets –the blasted things did sell well, and they had expanded their range with ‘soothingly singing sachets’.  
“What are _those_ , Potter?” he had picked up a particularly frilly one, with embroidered little hearts.  
“Sleeping sachets, Malfoy”. Malfoy gave it a derisive sniff, his delicate nostrils flaring.  
“Do I detect some dried sleeping-draught ingredients?”. Harry was not about to admit to hating them; that would make them agree on something, and that thought was enough to make him shudder.  
“You tell me, I’m not a potioneer”.  
“Ah yes, I remember you were truly _dreadful_ in class. Hmm.” He put the sachet down, and took in the rest of the store. “Is there anyone else that can help me find a suitable arrangement?”.  
Neville had left just before noon to have lunch with Hannah, who was due in a matter of weeks, perhaps days. He had even trained their little owl to perch on Hannah's shoulder indefinitely, so that it could take off to find Neville at a moment's notice. It was hilarious, and adorable.  
“Just me, Malfoy.” He sighed. Grey eyes found his face again.  
“Hm. You’ll do just fine then, I suppose. Another bouquet it is today, Potter.”  
It suddenly clicked. “It’s Thursday today!” he exlaimed.  
“What an incredibly asinine observation, Potter. I can see why the Aurors miss you.”  
“No, I mean, it’s dinner time with you mother, right?”  
Malfoy huffed. “Yes, although I don’t see how it is any of your business.”  
“Oi! You told me yourself just last Thursday, remember?” he countered indignantly.  
Malfoy rearranged his perfect hair –a nervous tick?  
“Ah yes. Ahem. Do I need to _beg_ for your assistance?”.  
Irritated already, he came out from behind the counter, and head to the flowers, again. “Alright, keep your hair on.”  
Malfoy’s shoes clicked behind him on the tiled floor of the shop.  
“Do you happened to have any Amaryllis?” he posed.  
Harry nodded. “Sure, but only those stripy ones over there”. He pointed to the delicate white and pink striped blooms.  
“Ah, yes” Malfoy leaned forward to inspect them, and Harry took another chance to study him. It seemed that today, just like before, Malfoy affected the magic in the room, bending it towards him. It took Harry an effort not to do the same, but he shook it off. He wondered if others felt the same about him. Perhaps it was just an illusion of that stupid suit. “Do you mind if I pick them myself, Potter?”  
Harry shook his head. “Not at all, just be careful”.  
Malfoy snorted. “Always am, Potter”.  
  
He took four stems of striped Amaryllis, a bunch of white, fragrant Stock, and some just-in Ranunculus^^, which, Harry had discovered, liked some stroking to keep their heads from drooping. No drooping in sight however, as Malfoy gathered them together, and brought them to the counter. Harry followed him, and started the process of binding them.  
“Has your mother gotten over your suits yet?” He asked, intent on prodding Malfoy a little.  
He got a raised blond brow in return. “I’m sure she never will, Potter”. He didn't seem mad however, amused, rather.  
“Why keep wearing them, then?” he pried, unable to stop himself.  
“Do you always ask so many questions? Or are you on an undercover Auror mission, hiding between flowers?” the corner of Draco’s mouth curled up. Would that that be the truth, instead of him pining away in Neville’s shop and trying to hold his act together. “no? Perhaps you’re trying to keep away your many fans by means of dirt and mandrake? I’m sure it won’t fool anyone, Potter”.  
What a ridiculous idea. But the provocation was making something bubble in his chest. He snorted inelegantly.  
“You’re absurd, Malfoy”  
“Really? Because it looks like I’m here buying my mother flowers, and you’re here…. to… what did we decide on?” a light smirk played on his lips. Harry met those glittering, amused eyes.  
“You tell me, Malfoy”.  
“Hmm. Bore me to tears with your conversational skills, clearly. And rob Mrs. Picklewilly of her best fruitcake, as I hear it.”  
“You know mrs. Picklewilly?”. He was nearly done binding the flowers together, but this little line of conversation was too interesting to let go of.  
“We had tea just the other week. Interesting conversationalist, if a bit forceful.”  
Harry grumbled. “forceful indeed” he muttered under his breath.  
“What was that?” Malfoy leaned forwards, and Harry was hit with a whiff of his expensive cologne, surprisingly warm and woodsy. It was quite a rush, being the center of Malfoy’s full attention. He felt his magic unfurl inside him, just a little, to reach out.  
“She’s trying to set me up, you know. Meddlesome, I call it.”  
Malfoy laughed again, startling Harry into grinning along.  
“Ah yes, they do tend to do that, Witches. But tell me this, Potter,” he leaned forwards a bit more, and Harry could see some flecks of blue in the irises of grey.  
“Tell you what, Malfoy”.  
“Do you want that?”  
“What? Be meddled with? Not particularly, no. Being drafted into a war without consent was enough, really.” He answered dispassionately. Malfoy’s face lost some of its levity at that, but he pressed on.  
“No, I mean, being set up. _Marriage_. The whole blissful family life that I imagined you’d have with your very own redheaded Weasley”. Harry sighed. Of all people to ask him such a personal question, it had to be _Malfoy_ that could compel him to answer? It must be the suit, or whatever was apparently so magnetic about him that even the flowers took notice.  
“Why do you care, Malfoy?” He rubbed his beard, flowers lying tied prettily on the counter. Malfoy’s eyes flicked to the gesture, intrigued.  
“Oh, I don’t really. Just, satisfy my curiosity, Potter. Granger and Weasley have certainly managed, well on their way actually.” Harry looked up in suprise.  
“Wait, you _know_?” Hermione had told Harry she wanted to keep it in the family for a little while longer… what business had Malfoy, knowing?!  
“Of _course_ I do, Potter. I’d be a lousy secretary if I didn’t. And, much as it pains me to admit, Granger’s my friend. Though you’d never hear me say it about Weasley”. He cleared his throat, and pulled himself upright again. Oddly enough, Harry felt himself lean forwards a bit.  
“Why haven’t _you_ , then, if you’re asking _me_? I thought you would’ve been married to an approved pureblood wife and have an heir on the way already”. Malfoy looked away, throat bobbing. Was that a blush creeping up Malfoy's neck?  
“None of your business, is it?”. But Harry had scented blood, his own curiosity piqued.  
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours” he prompted. Malfoy’s head turned, a slight grin spreading.  
“A bit forward of you, isn’t it?”  
Oh Merlin. He hadn’t meant _that_. He felt a blush spread over his cheeks, and hoped his beard hid it.  
“Fine. _Yes_ , I want that. What Ron and Hermione have. A boring, domestic existence, complete with messy family dinners and sappy traditions, all of it”. It rushed out, his deepest desire; family.  
Malfoy looked at him, stiff and straight-faced. His only tell were his flared nostrils. He seemed to be breathing deeply, appraising Harry anew. Harry felt a bit ashamed at his declaration, but it wasn’t like he thought Malfoy would run to the press. Not with _this_ , not with Hermione keeping an eye on him.  
“Well well, Potter. Can’t say I’m surprised.” He traced the edges of the counter with his pale, slender fingers. “Fair’s fair, isn’t it?”. He looked Potter straight in the eye. Was it his imagination, or could he see a heartbeat thudding in Malfoy’s throat?  
“The reason I haven’t married a pureblood Witch, Potter, is because I’m as gay as a maypole”.  
  
One heartbeat, they just looked at eachother.  
  
Incredulous, Harry couldn’t help it: He laughed. Upon seeing Malfoy’s face, he really wished he hadn’t. Malfoy’s jaw was hard, clenched. Wait, it _wasn’t_ a joke? Malfoy had told him the truth?  
He felt bad. He knew how hard it was, coming out to anyone, let alone your arch-nemesis turned… flower deliverer? While Harry was still scrambling to figure out a save, Malfoy grit out “Well, It’s been grand, Potter. Goodbye”.  
He picked up the bunch of flowers, and was gone. Shit.  
Now he felt bad for _Malfoy_.  
  
  


* * *

*  
Rhododendron: Beware, I am dangerous  
Snapdragon: Presumption, deception  
Nightshade: Falsehood (also, sending poisonous flowers is in itself a message, no?)  
  
  
**  
Sub Rosa means discretion, that which is repeated or said under the rose should remain secret.  
Nescis, if I remember correctly, is to ‘not know’; I meant it to say; you know not discretion.  
  
***  
Goldenrod: Encouragement  
Sunflowers: Loyalty  
Thyme: Courage  
Fennel: Flattery  
  
^  
Viriliter age: act manfully or courageously.   


^^  
Amaryllis: Pride, splendid beauty  
Stock: Affection, lasting beauty  
Ranunculus: Radiant, charming  
(isn't that a beautiful bouquet to give to your mother?)  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! If so, please leave a comment to keep me writing :D
> 
> Be safe and healthy, everyone.


	8. Laying down a trap of petals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Harry have a full conversation, and progress is finally made.  
> We learn a bit more about floriography, and there is a terrible emergency.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I have no beta, so all mistakes are my own. Please point them out so they can die a silent and painless death.  
> I personally feel like this chapter is a mess, but I really wanted to get something out, and make progress in the story.  
> I mean, 8 chapters until a decent convo is already quite long, and I don't want to wait until chapter 20 for a kiss, right?

It had been a calculated risk of course, telling Potter he was gay. One he didn’t like, but necessary. He made himself no illusions; Potter wasn’t really going to consider him, romantically speaking. Which was completely _fine_ , he told himself. It was about showing vulnerability, making Potter see Draco as more, than… well. Another pureblood prick set out to annoy him. Which he _was_ , of course, and proudly so, but still.  
He was going along with Mrs. Picklewilly’s plan for now, and what he needed for it to even have the slightest chance of succeeding, was Potters attention. And not in the way he used to get it, by yelling at him and stomping on his nose. He couldn’t stop the embarrassed grin on his face. Salazar, what an annoying child he had been. Potter’s reaction hadn’t been ideal – _what_ a hypocrite, seeing that Potter had likely shagged his way through half of wizarding Britain, with his Savior status, but he could work with it. Embarrassment was as good a start as any, he supposed.   
It was a sunny spring day, and he had left his formal robes at the office. He couldn’t very well stride into Muggle London to get Granger her carrot cake for lunch wearing them. He felt a bit exposed regardless in his shirt and waistcoat, without any jacket. But it would have to do. And if he fancied himself a cinnamon roll from that same bakery, it wasn’t anybody’s business but his own, surely. Maybe pregnancy cravings could be contagious.  
The muggle girl behind the counter smiled at him when he placed his order. “Got a sweet tooth, sir?” she asked lightly. She was pretty, with her dark hair in a ponytail, tan skin glowing, smile wide and friendly. Her nametag read ‘Sanaz’. He smiled back faintly. ”Pregnant friend, more like” he grumbled back, though not unkindly. She laughed at that answer. “Oh, don’t look so miserable. She’s lucky to have you as a friend, bringing her pastry”. He took his pastry bag, already looking forward to tea with a cinnamon roll. “Believe me, I’m lucky to have her.” But she had already turned to the next customer, who was loudly demanding she hurried up.  
Goods in hand, he decided he might as well pick up his order from Spectral Sprouts, see if Potter was there too. It had been a few days since his unfortunate but necessary confession, and he hoped Potter had stewed in his awful response. Loathe to admit it, Draco had. He still cringed inwardly, hearing that surprised laugh. But he had to put those feelings aside and really get on with it, else Potter wasn’t ever going to the Function, with _or_ without him. He hadn’t told Granger about his plans yet; she’d disapprove, would undoubtedly say that “If Harry had an interest in politics, he would’ve done something already”, and “not to force him, especially not _now_ ”. Well, Draco just tended to disagree with her on these things. Nearly two months of pining and lovesickness was _enough_. And years of compliance with corrupt and incorrigible traditional politics was _more_ than enough. Mrs. Picklewilly was right; Potter had a seat – _two_ seats of power in the Wizengamot, and he should really start using those. Plus, he was the Savior. He had a responsibility! And if it so happened to align with the plans Draco and Hermione had for reforms, well, all the better, wasn’t it?

He picked up his pace, and made his way to the Wizarding district. The sun was warm, reflecting off his fair hair. He attracted some looks from people on the street, but nothing overly hostile today. He nodded at Mrs. Picklewilly, who was standing behind her shop window, grinning like a Cheshire cat when he stepped inside the shop.  
“Spectral Sprouts, welcome!” called a clear voice. Not Harry then. His voice had a rough edge, tended to go croaky when he looked especially tired, he'd noticed.  
“Ah, Draco. Good to see you” smiled Neville, smearing dirt on his apron and approaching the counter.  
“Good afternoon, Neville. Rare to see you here, these days”. Neville blushed rather adorably.  
“Yes, well, Hannah’s getting annoyed with me, you know.” Draco grinned.  
“Due soon, is she not?” he stepped in further, put down his pastry bag on the counter.  
“Godric yes, any day now, and blaming me for it.” He smiled fondly, obviously besotted. Draco tried very hard not to be jealous. While he didn't really want a pregnant wife -Merlin knows his mother would have jumped at the chance-, Neville and Hannah's sweet domesticity did stir some tender feelings in him. Which he subsequently tried to squash, since even reformed Death-Eathers couldn't have such things. He gave Neville a genuine smile.   
“May it all go well, Neville”. Draco said, and found he meant it. Neville shot him a grateful look, then asked “you’re here for your flower delivery?”.  
“Ah, yes. I know it was due this afternoon, but I was already on my way and thought I might as well do it myself.” Neville nodded.  
“It should be ready –HARRY?” Neville bellowed to the back.  
“IN HERE!” came back, in Potters voice. Potter came out –dear Merlin, the beard was getting just as wild as his birdsnest of a hairdo. He had dirt above his eyebrow, and he looked a bit sweaty. No dark smudges underneath his eyes though; he looked rather healthy, for a change.  
“Draco’s just here to pick up his delivery for …. What was it, the Patils?”. Draco nodded.  
“Yes, Parvati and Melany. I’m meeting them later for dinner.”   
“Oh, I just finished that order. Just a sec.” Potter turned back, and came out with a lovely bright collection of pinks and blues and whites. Just that moment, an owl came zooming through the window, straight for Neville.  
He promptly dropped the shears he was holding, exclaimed “Mildred!”, and clutched at the tiny little owl.  
“Go, go!” gestured Potter, behind the flowers, and Neville was gone, Apparated in his apron, still clutching the little bird.  
Stunned silence settled over them.  
“Wow” said Potter.  
“Indeed”. Nodded Draco.  
Harry put down the arrangement on the counter.  
Silence fell again, filled with awkwardness. He wondered if Potter was remembering his abrupt departure previously. He cleared his throat, and resisted the urge to comb a hand through is hair. Potter was obviously looking around for something to say.  
“What do you reckon?” Potter settled on. Ah. Skipping over their previous conversation then. Not very Gryffindor-like, but it suited him fine. Draco cocked his head, considering.  
“Well, could be false alarm. Hannah might look like she’s overdue, but it could still be a while”.  
“I guess we’ll hear about it soon, eh? At least Neville’s already got an owl to send us, if it does happen” Harry laughed.  
Draco nodded, but didn't laugh.  
  
Another lull.  
  
Harry hummed, tapping his fingers on the counter.  
“You want a card with the flowers?”  
Draco nodded, grateful for the change in subject. “Yes, please”. Potter bend over to rummage around in the drawers of the counter, and got out a small selection of cards. Draco selected one with silver edging, and Potter snorted. Draco shrugged.  
“What? It suits the flowers. Plus, Melany was also a Slytherin, I’ll have you know”.  
“I wasn’t saying anything!” Potter protested.  
Draco sniffed, angled his chin upwards. “You were _obviously_ judging me, Potter. D’you have a quill?”  
Again Potter bent over –Draco was resolutely not looking at his arse, lest he be caught-, and emerged with a slightly ruffled but perfectly serviceable goose feather-quill and inkpot. He thought briefly, then settled on simplicity;  
  
_The wonder is, in what you have already_.  
  
He signed it with his initials, and handed it back over. Potter –rudely-, glanced at the little card. He flicked his eyes up to Draco’s.  
“Wait. _You’re_ D.L.M? All those bouquets were yours?!”  
“Hmm?” Draco hummed, raising a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “I take it you have been delivering my arrangements all over the ministry, then?”  
“God, _yes_ , and what a boatload of trouble that has been!” he exclaimed with an indignant air. “And I kept thinking, who would send weird and smelly bouquets with odd Latin phrases for Godric knows what reason? Merlin, only figures it would be you! HA” he thurst a hand through is hair.   
Draco sniffed. “If you _must_ know, they are carefully crafted messages with a clear purpose”. Potter looked at him disbelievingly.  
“Is this again your flower language nonsense, Malfoy? Bribing Ministry members?” he was frowning, but looked bemused all the same. And Draco took it for what it was; a perfect opportunity to introduce Potter to some pressing matters. But he had to goad Potter; he certainly wouldn’t want to give the impression that he was _eager_ to talk to Potter.  
“I’m not sure you should know of these matters, Potter. They require some _delicacy_ ”.  
Potter snorted. “Bloody hell Malfoy. It’s just a bunch of flowers. Surely it can’t be all that important?”  
Draco let a little knowing smirk creep up on his face.  
“Tell me this, then, Potter: why would _I_ , Slytherin as I am, waste my time on things that are useless frivolities?” he leaned in to Potter, bracing his forearms on the till. He was close enough now to get a whiff of Potters smell, and his nostrils flared. He smelled, for lack of a better word, _sweet_. Like he’d been standing in a baker’s kitchen –and, of course, of foliage and dirt. It was odd, but rather nice. _Right_ , Draco, he said to himself. _Focus_. No need to be drooling over Potter like you do over your cinnamon roll! Potter was looking at him oddly, and had leaned in a fraction as well. Draco was close enough to see that the dirt above his eyebrow had caught on his iconic scar. There were little flecks of golden brown in those green eyes, and his eyelashes were impossibly long, visible behind his smudged, dirty glasses. He was close enough to see the moment Potter’s curiosity gave in. _Victory_.  
“ _Fine_ , tell me. Why’d you sent someone that smelly yellow one?” Draco laughed in Harry’s face.  
“That’s the one that really got you, is it?”. Potter rubbed his beard, failing to hide his grin.  
“God, the _smell_ of that thing, Malfoy! Came home to Teddy and he pretended to gag!”. Draco grinned. He knew Potter lived with his godson, his Black cousin. He ignored the little jab of regret in his chest, and pressed on. Potter was hooked; interested. Now he just needed to reel him in, a little. He leaned forward just a tad more, cocking his head.  
“Do you remember who they were for?” he posits. Potter nods.  
“A bloke named Shelly, I remember”   
“You know who that is?” Potter’s eyes shutter a bit. Oh no. No, better keep going. Come on, Draco!  
“Shelly, aside from being quite a wonderful cellist, is a fixture within the Ministry’s department of Internal Wizarding Affairs. He has the Minister’s ear when he wants it. He’s been especially useful since the birth of his grandson. Found his spine, so to say”.  
“Know a lot about that, do you, Malfoy?” Potter inquired, a tad teasing, also leaning forward. They were almost nose to nose. A thrill of excitement went through Draco, the smell of Potter mingling with that of the blossoms set before them.  
“More than you care to know, Potter” he whispered in the space between them, voice low. Potter’s pupils dilated a fraction. _Interesting_.   
“What did the smelly flowers mean?”   
Draco leaned back, touching his fingers to the delicate pink blooms set on the counter. Potter’s eyes dropped to his hand.  
“Goldenrod, the yellow tufty plants, are meant as a token for encouraging. Sunflowers you must recognize, implore his loyalty to our cause. They’re also quite beautiful, don’t you agree?”. Potter hummed.  
“What made it smell, was both the thyme and fennel, which, I agree, produce quite the odorous arrangement. However, they symbolize courage and flattery. I like Shelly, and I want him to know I like what he’s doing, now.” He glanced up, finding Potter seemingly mulling this over.  
“What about the Latin?”  
“Well, all purebloods learn Latin growing up. It’s a means of communicating more than just plain words. I like to beat them at their own game. Although Shelly isn’t in the pureblood faction, he will have appreciated this particular one.”  
“What did it mean?”  
“Have courage” he answered simply, shrugging lightly.  
“Oh. Why does he need courage?”. Draco glanced at Potter. Reeled him in nicely, didn’t he? Now, push him over the edge.  
“Because of what’s coming, Potter”  
“What’s that?”  
“Maybe someone needs to start reading papers, hm?”  
Harry sighs, but the moment he opens his mouth to argue back –and he definitely was going to, by his facial expression, the floo in the back flares to life, chiming urgently.  
Potter frowns and glances over  
“Maybe it’s Neville?”  
The floo chimes again, and Potter waves his wand to unblock it. Immediately, the loud voice of Molly Weasley fills the space, panicked and shrill.  
  
“Harry! Come quick, it’s Teddy. We need to go to st. Mungo’s immediately!”  
Draco watches Potter’s face drain of all colour. He’s already halfway to the floo when he remembers Draco.  
“Malfoy I-”  
“It’s fine! I’ll lock up. Go!” he waves him away, and less than a blink later, Potter’s through the floo.  
The sudden stillness in the space unsettles him. Neville had gone, and now Potter, too.  
The door bell jingles to his right, and he looks up. A witch in light blue robes has just stepped in. He does _not_ want to be dealing with Neville's customers.  
“Sorry, Madam, but the shop is closed.” She looks at him, startled.  
“You don’t work here, do you?” she has a high pitched, obnoxious sort of voice, and he’s already on edge. “No,” he answers curtly, drawing himself up. “I’ve been charged with locking up, however. Family emergency, you _do_ understand”. He frowns at her, as if to say –how can you be so rude as to even step foot in here?  
“Oh. Well. Oh. How unfortunate. Well then.” She starts, fidgeting.  
“Yes. We’d better leave. Now, Madam, if you please”.  
“Oh well. Yes. Alright, then.” And he practically pushes her out of the door, Draco at her heels, arrangement for the Patils in hand. With a flick of his wand, the doorsign turns to _closed_ , and he wards the door. He’ll owl Neville the unlocking spell, later. Or leave Potter to it. He used to be an Auror, after all. Surely he could deal with a standard warding spell.

Dinner with the Patils and their little boy was lovely, even if Draco was awfully distracted throughout each course. Their son Jason was a delight, smart and attentive, and very well behaved. Melany’s eyes went a little damp when she read the card on their bouquet, and hugged Draco fiercely. With Jason present, they didn’t discuss the ins and outs of Muggle schools, but it was unnecessary. They had just needed some reassurance.

Later, lying in his bed, the picture of Potter, white as a sheet and worried looking came to mind. Parenting seemed to come with a lot of that. Worry.  
Yet a lot of his friends either had chosen to have children, or were well on their way. But then again, Melany had Parvati, to lean on, to share the burden. Granger had Weasley, who padded all her chairs and stacked her desk full of snacks. Neville had Hannah, who doted on him and made him feel secure.  
Potter was all alone in that worry. And now, something dreadful had happened to _his_ cousin, Potters _godson_ , and he had no way of knowing whether the boy was okay. Whether Potter could even deal with it properly, like family could. Unease settled in his stomach. And Potter, who was already fraying at the edges, was clearly _alone_ in dealing with it.  
Oh _no_ , he thought, as sympathy flooded him. Now he felt sorry for _Potter_. And not just that; this was his _cousin_ , a Black relative. He really couldn’t leave it alone now, could he?  
 _Bollocks_. His plan had just gotten a whole lot more complicated.

\--------------

The arrangement for the Patils was:  
Almond blossom: Hope  
Bachelor Button: Blessedness, Hope  
Bee Balm: Sympathy  
Hawthorn blossom: Hope -but also, Draco's wand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't want to leave you with more angst -trying times, these are, but at least there is finally some plot going on.


	9. Unexpected Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We see what happened to Teddy, and Harry meets someone that might complicate Draco's plans for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like the time-flip here is off, but I don't know how to fix it (yet).  
> A few days late, but still in the same week, so I count that as a win. I went off on a tangent in some parts, but I don't think I can help it; by now I think it's my writing style, haha. Hope everyone's healthy, enjoy!

Harry smoothes down the quilted blanket over his godson’s bed. Teddy’s fever -which had come as predicted-, had gone down to no-longer dangerous levels, and he had finally fallen into a quiet sleep. It was long after midnight. The only light in the usually so brightly coloured room was a small moon shaped lamp next to the doorknob on the wall, so Teddy could find the door and come get Harry if he needed to. It bathed the room in a silver, colourless sheen. Ron and Hermione had left just before ten o’clock, when Harry had finally convinced them they couldn’t do anything to help, and Ron was getting worried about Hermione having enough sleep in her state. Hermione had glared at Ron for being ‘irrationally worried’, but they had flood home together regardless. Leaving Harry to sit beside Teddy’s bed, stroking his now dull, brown hair and hoping he would sleep through the night. Harry’s knees popped when he raised himself off the chair next to Teddy’s bed. He put up an alarm-charm around him, which would make his wand buzz if Teddy’s temperature rose or when he woke up. He shuffled out of the room, straight into what used to be Sirius’s room, and he crawled into the canopied bed, feeling like a child himself. Unprepared for all that lay on his shoulders, worried to his stomach, and feeling incapable of dealing with it.  
He did this sometimes, sleeping in what to him was still Sirius’ room. He hadn’t changed it much since. Surely Sirius would both laugh at and scold him for leaving up the posters of scantily clad muggle girls, the Gryffindor banner, and the frankly disturbing amount of David Bowie posters. After the war, when he was finally ready to face the house, this was the last room he was able to enter. Then, after Ron and Hermione had helped him clean the house, forcefully took down Mrs. Black’s portrait (Hermione had contacted old Professor Flitwick, who had advised her to try the charm he had used to remove the Weasley twins’ swamp), and redecorated the main living spaces, he had finally dared enter it, with vague ideas about making this his own bedroom. But he couldn’t touch it, even after all these years. He’d emptied out all the drawers on the desk, the closet, only to put everything back the way he found it. Everything, from old letters Sirius had written to Remus, to his father, little doodles, bits of twinkly wire, discarded projects, it was all valuable to Harry. The only connection he had left to those people he was afraid to forget. The house itself was a living reminder of it, the magic sometimes as jittery as his previous master, energetic and chaotic, a little dark. Less now, after years of having Harry as its master.  
In the first year, there had been daily incidents of secret ‘pockets’ opening in the house, offering up little secrets stowed away there by previous owners. Magic shifting to change rooms a little, as if making space for its new master. Harry had added the small toys to the shelves in Sirus’ room, imagining Sirius playing with a miniature broomstick, or a plush dragon with fireglass eyes. Had found a wooden box with wizarding fairytales, some disturbingly dark. He put that under the bed. Upon taking down the bed-curtains, discovered Sirius’s ceiling, like all the other original bedrooms, was decorated with constellations, spelled to light up at night; Sirius had covered them up with Gryffindor red hangings, probably unhappy to be reminded of his ancestry. There were many such mementos of how the Blacks had raised their eldest son, so proud, sometimes even sweet, but also of the undeniable hatred it had inspired.  
It had enraged Harry to the point of wanting to tear everything out, only to have the house figuratively dig its heels in. Small protests from the house against pulling up carpet, somehow nailing itself to the floorboards beneath. Living room wallpaper rippling and changing patterns frantically when Hermione approached it with a peeler, only to have to pause and ask Harry if he still wanted it ripped off –and he had decided he could live with fleur-de-lis, since it wasn’t the Black family crest. Upon removing the ominous elf-heads, a leaded glass window had appeared, brightening the space with sunlight streaming in, nevermind that there were supposed to be neighbours next to them. Slowly, efforts to make the house livable became a negotiation instead of a battle. There were some rooms however, Harry daren’t set foot in, even after years. The formal dining room, the walls covered with the family tapestry, remained dusty and in disrepair. The attic and most of the second floor too, were still closed off. In the end, he had always thought those rooms would be filled with what was to become his own family. And, it had, for a bit. Teddy had come into his life and Grimmauld place at three. Filling up the hallways with wailing, sleepless nights in the dark. Little giggles of laughter, pattering feet on the stairs giving Harry heart palpitations and frantically finding spells to child-proof everything. Nights full of worry, when Teddy wouldn’t stop crying and refused to eat anything Harry cooked. Those nights, too, he had fallen down face first into Sirius’ old bed imagining he could still smell his godfather. Talk to him, even only in his head, because who could say it wasn’t real?  
He curled up small, and deposited his glasses and wand on the nightstand with a soft clatter. He didn’t even bother changing his clothes, the sterile smell of St. Mungo’s still clinging to him. It had been the worst day in a long while. The thought of Teddy, sweet Teddy, his bright godson, being strapped down in a St. Mungo’s bed, his magic going haywire, was something Harry hoped he’d never see again.  
That afternoon, Molly had gone to lie down for a bit after lunch, as she was want to do. The kids were good about it, being old enough to understand that this ‘freedom’ was built on trust, and didn’t misbehave too much. They were allowed to roam the garden and grounds up to the neighbours’ fence, eat a snack if they wanted to, and use all the art supplies at hand. There had been some terrible messes and spills, but nothing broken, no one hurt. Until today, that was.  
Victoire and Teddy had decided to play hide and seek in the house, keeping quiet so as not to wake Molly. Teddy was good at hiding; he had quickly learned to use his metamorph ability to blend into his surroundings, and loved stretching himself. Harry knew of this, and admired Teddy’s talent, encouraged it even. Then, Teddy had the clever idea to hide up in the Burrow’s old attic, the one that had housed the ghoul, above Ron’s bedroom. It turned out, the Ghoul had since left, and a new, more ominous resident had taken up space there. And it had found Teddy.

Harry didn’t exactly know what the Boggart had turned into for Teddy, but he had an inkling. He could well remember Molly’s Boggart, in this very house, showing her her family, dead. Molly had woken to Teddy screaming in a panic, Victoire running up the stairs already to get her. Teddy had been so frightened his magic had tried to shield him from the threat, but, not having an outlet, had turned into itself. It was comparable to an autoimmune reaction, only magical, and acute, Hermione had explained to him in Mungo’s. Harry had immediately taken hold of Teddy and apparated into the Emergency Ward, where Teddy was seized and brought to Spell Damage. Limbs and magic splaying everywhere, they had had to strap him down to get calming draughts down his throat, before they could set up a sort of wizarding IV fluid; it had no tubes, but required precise incision, for which Teddy needed to be still. At that point, Harry had been pushed out into the hall, told to “Please wait, Mr. Potter”.  
  
The door to the room they had taken Teddy into had closed, automatically warded, and soundproofed. He couldn’t even _hear_ his godson. What was happening in that room? He began pacing, his own magic crackling static in the air. He balled his fist, willing them not to shake. He was debating whether to break the wards directly or pound the door. He _had_ to get to Teddy.

“Harry!” came behind him, and to his immense relief he saw Hermione rushing through the hall towards him.  
“Oh thank Godric”. Hermione could help him, she always had.  
“Molly sent a Patronus, she’s calmed down Victoire and Bill has come to get her home. Ron’s at work, he wanted to come, but you know how it is, and-”  
Harry impatiently interrupts her. “ Hermione, I need to get inside that room”. He was starting to shake now. How long had it been already? Seconds? Minutes? More? He couldn't think, he couldn't breathe-  
Her large brown eyes turn to the door, narrow perceptively.   
“Teddy’s in there?” She asks in a low voice. Harry nods, his magic pulling from his core, compressing into a tight, strong ball. _Not yet_ , he thought.  
“Give me a second, Harry”. She answers, already understanding. It was to her credit as a friend that she didn’t try to persuade him differently. A testament too, to her growing sense of parenthood. She took out her wand and waved it in a complicated matter. Little glowing threads of magic became visible around the door. “Right,” she muttered, nodding to herself. Harry could feel the seconds passing, too fast. Hermione hummed decisively, and turned to him. “Can you break these little blue ones? Not the others. Also, I feel like I should say, no need to blow up the door, okay Harry?” Grimly, Harry nodded. He focused his eyes and simply let out a short sharp burst of his magic, not even bothering with any of his auror handbook spells for breaking wards. Distinctly, he heard a click in the air. Not even bothering to thank Hermione, he yanked open the door and rushed inside.

The mood inside was still frantic, although they had obviously managed to hook Teddy up to an IV. Someone was mixing potions in a portable emergency cauldron next to the IV setup, another Healer was standing next to Teddy’s head, hands stretched out over him and mumbling spellwork under his breath. Teddy was still conscious. His anxious eyes were looking at him pleadingly, tears leaking from the corners, and Harry felt like someone had just stabbed him. His magic was still obviously out of control; his skincolour was constantly changing, looking like it was literally crawling over him. Some of the colours and textures weren’t even remotely human-looking. It was a disconcerting sight.  
“Teddy!” he exclaimed, fast approaching the bed.  
“Mr Potter! You can’t be here!” a short female Healer scolded him, advancing towards him with a wand raised. He felt his face harden, his magic again drawing close to the surface. He could feel Hermione standing behind him, still in the dooropening.  
“I’m _not_ leaving. That is _my_ son there, and he needs me.” He forcefully took a few steps to the bed, before a shield was thrown up in his path. With a little flex of magic, he had vanished it again. Furious, he turned again to the Healer. His anger felt too small for his body, and he desperately wanted to lash out to the witch standing in his way. The other two healers in the room had come to a halt, although there were still little twinkling sounds coming from the diagnostic charms hovering over Teddy.  
“I will not interfere with what you do. But my child is frightened. Let me hold his hand, goddammit!” he spat at her. She stared at him, apprehension in her eyes. After one, two seconds, she gave a curt nod. Not thanking her, he stood on the empty side of the cot Teddy was lying on, and took Teddy’s small hand between his. “Hey, Ted. You’ll be alright, yeah?” he started talking, Teddy’s eyes –two different colours now, sliding to his, and clinging to him. He briefly looked up to see Hermione being pushed out in the hallway again, but she smiled at him, satisfied, her eyes a little wet.  
And Harry started talking to Teddy, while he was given potions, while his body racked with seizures and bursts of raw magic, and pulled at the restraints holding him down. He told Teddy about a prank Remus had pulled on the rest of the Marauders, spelling their schoolties Slytherin green instead of Gryffindor red during the night. He told Teddy about Remus charming his teaset so that they changed color constantly when filled with hot tea, and wasn’t that lovely? He talked about how Tonks often went to the zoo to get new ideas on how to morph, and practiced at the dinner table -at this, Tedd’s magic had stopped acting up a little, his breathing a little more regular. Teddy’s eyes had closed after a while, his body stilling more and more. After what felt like hours, after Harry had ran out of readily available stories to tell, the Healer standing over Teddy’s head stepped away. “He’s stable now” and wobbling, took the nearest seat. The female healer that had scolded Harry before stated “Thank you, Healer Lindsay'', and starting running new diagnostics, writing down the results on the chart at Teddy’s feet. The potioneer had long ago left, being called up for another case. The seated, obviously drained Healer met Harry’s eyes. “I’ll want to check again when he wakes up, but he should be able to be discharged tonight already”.  
Harry nodded, still not having let go of Teddy’s hand. “What happened, though?” he posed. The female Healer, annoyingly, ventured to answer, even though he had clearly addressed Healer Lindsay. “Internalized Raw Magic, mr. Potter”, she stated curtly, as if that was obvious and self-explanatory. “He’s indeed stable, and if he is coherent when he wakes up, you should be able to take him home tonight. Healer Lindsay will fill you in on the potions regimen, nonetheless.” She peered critically over to the still-seated healer, tutted, and left. Maybe there were rules against healers sitting next to their patients? Then again, she seemed to disapprove of mostly everything, so perhaps it was just that. Clearly the other healer had read some of it off his face, since he smiled faintly, and stated, “Healer Weston is a very competent healer, but has very little time for things like a good bedside manner”. Harry snorted.  
“You don’t say”. That got a little grin out of the man. “Is Teddy going to be alright?” he blurted out, feeling safer asking this man instead of the brusque witch. The tired healer brushed his dark blonde hair off his forehead. “I feel confident he will. Do you know what Internalized Raw Magic means?” the man asked, finally standing and peering over Teddy again. Harry shook his head.  
“We see this occasionally, with kids that either have strong uncontrollable magic, or suffer from trauma.” He briefly glanced at Harry, hesitating a little. Harry inclined his head so the man would continue.  
“Children’s magic grows much like children themselves; their magical core is tied to their life force, maturing during puberty, then stabilizing. Sometimes they instinctively know how to channel it properly, in the earliest of wandless magic. Sometimes they don’t, hence the occasional burst of accidental magic.” Harry hummed.  
“I know all of this. What does that have to do with Teddy?”.  
“Magic cannot vanish; it is like water. A substance that has to exist in one form or other. It has to contain space, wherever and however it can.” Harry frowned, opened his mouth to ask a question, but the Healer held up a hand to halt him. “What is means it that, when children have growth-spurts, or their magic for some reason is released, they cannot channel or contain it properly. Usually, the magic goes _out_ wards. It leaves the body, exists somewhere else. In your child’s case, it went _in_ wards, even though there is no room in the body to contain it. When the magical core is overloaded or stressed, for example.”  
“Shit.” Mutters Harry, looking over Teddy’s still body.  
“Your godson was found next to a Boggart, and he has a history of trauma. Not unusual for a war-oprhan, I’m afraid. The burst of magic brought on by his fear and protective instincts overloaded the system, and his magic started eating away at his core.” the Healer grimaces.  
“But he’ll be alright?” Harry felt his worry grow with his understanding.  
“Yes. We halted the progress of corrosive magic via potions. I immunized the magical core against it, and stopped renewed outpour of magic. It will halt his magical growth for a little bit, but that side effect will be gone in a few weeks. He'll also have bouts of fever over the next few days, unfortunately. It's his system getting rid of residual magic.”  
“Will it affect his metamorphmagus abilities? He loves using them, you know”. Harry smiles a little bit, thinking of Teddy’s recent outrageous haircolours. The Healer smiled at him. It was rather attractive, even if he looked tired.  
“Well, I was going to recommend not morphing for a week at least. He’ll need to take stabilizing potions for five days, and those also inhibit instinctual magic like metamorphing a little bit.”  
“Oh” Harry uttered, a bit dejected. He suspected Teddy used his abilities to look like Harry because of his need for a ‘real’ family. He loved being mistaken for Harry’s son. Or, occasionally, to get attention –why else would he want neon green hair?  
“And, mr. Potter, ” Healer Lindsay started,  
“Call me Harry, please” the healer looked a bit surprised, but continued  
“I am also going to recommend a pediatric mind healer.”  
Harry stared at him.  
“Are you saying I am a bad parent?”. He felt defensive. Yes, he had felt inadequate in the last few weeks. But Teddy seemed happy generally, and he had Molly and Andromeda looking out for him, too, who were amazing parents.  
“Not at all. I noticed his magic calming down as you spoke to him, and I draw my own conclusions from that. However, given the situation-”  
“–what do you mean with that?!”  
“-with the Boggart, I think it might be helpful for him to speak about them with someone.”  
“Why wouldn’t he be able to do that with me?” Harry answered, still feeling wronged.  
“Because children and their parental figures have different, complex relationships. And, if it helps him not having panic attacks or related symptoms, why not try it?” the Healer asked him kindly.  
“I suppose so” Harry rubbed his face, looked down at Teddy.  
“Do you have kids?”. The Healer looked a bit taken aback, but nodded. Harry glanced at the man. Surely, he was only a little older than Harry. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. “My daughter is three” He said, a bit curt.  
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry” Harry hastily added, trying for a smile. The Healer regarded him pensively. “Its just,” He messed up his hair a bit more, and glanced at Teddy to make sure he was still asleep, “I don’t know any other parents, that are, you know… going at it alone.” The Healer gave him a wry smile. Colour was slowly returning to his cheeks.  
“Would you like a coffee, mr. Potter?”  
“-Harry. Eh, Sure?”  
“I’ll be right back”. The Healer stood up, and exited the door. Right behind him, a tired looking Hermione came in, closely followed by Ron.  
  
“How is Teddy? It’s been hours!” she exclaimed, both embracing Harry and then taking a seat around Teddy’s bed.  
“He’s going to be fine. Just hoping he’ll wake up soon, then I can take him back home”.  
He relayed, as far as he could, what Healer Lindsay had told him before, Hermione nodding in keen understanding. He didn’t mention the part about the mind-healer, still wrapping his mind around it. They were chatting, Harry winding down, when Teddy’s eyelids starting fluttering, the first signal he was waking up. As was usual when he woke up, his eyes were a light amber, unlike the green he liked to turn them to.  
“Harry?” came Teddy’s small voice. It tore through Harry’s heart.  
“I’m here, sweetheart”.  
“I’m sorry” he said, pleading eyes up at Harry. Harry frowned.  
“You don’t have to apologize, Teddy, you did nothing wrong.”  
“But-” he started, lip wobbling again. At this, Harry couldn’t stand it anymore, and leaned over to hug his godson again.  
“You’re okay Teddy. We all are”.  
“I can’t feel my magic” his muffled reply came, a bit panicked.  
“Shhh, Teddy, that’s normal” he stroked his godsons hair, leaned back. “The Healer said no metamorphing for the next week, okay?”  
Teddy bit his lip and nodded. “Can we go home now?” he asked.  
“Soon, yeah? We just have to wait for the Healer, okay?” Harry stated. They were just starting in on a debate what to have for dinner, when Healer Lindsay came back, holding a tray of coffee cups in hand, looking a bit sheepish when he spotted Ron and Hermione standing next to the bed as well.  
“Good afternoon. Would you like a coffee?” he asked them, putting the tray down on the table in the corner. Hermione politely declined, but Ron groaned out a  
“Thank Godric” and jumped up to get himself one.  
“Don’t get too excited, they don’t give Healers better coffee than the cafeteria, you know”. He smiled. Harry felt the corners of his lips lift. He decided he rather liked the Healer.  
“Now, I wouldn’t normally discuss details with non-family present, but…?” he glanced at Harry, gesturing to Ron and Hermione. He nodded.   
“It’s fine, they can hear”.  
Healer Lindsay smiled, and briefly explained, as he had before, what had happened and the measures taken, and about the potions regimen Teddy was supposed to take. He didn’t mention the mind healer again, however.  
“Now, Edward,-” he started addressing Teddy, who cringed at the name  
“-Teddy” Harry interrupted, sqeezing Teddy’s hand.  
“Teddy, you cannot metamorph for a week, alright? It’s very important to keep calm. If you get very angry or sad, I want you to take a breath, hold it for three seconds, and then slowly release it, and repeat that three times at least, okay?” He proceeded to demonstrate, repeating the breathing exercise a few times, encouraging Teddy to mimic him, which he did. He then cast a general diagnostic spell, scribbled something down on the chart again, and after making an appointment to see them in a week, said they were free to go. Harry helped Teddy off the bed, Ron and Hermione heading to the hallway already. The Healer cleared his throat, picking something off the table, next to the coffee-tray.  
“Mr Potter,-”  
“Harry”, he interrupted again, and smiled. The healer inclined his head, his hair flopping over his forehead.  
“I wanted to give you this,” and gave him a lightblue pamphlet, a little card clipped to it. “its, well, a support group for single parents. I, well, that is to say,” he cleared his throat a little nervously. “I had a lot of help, and still go sometimes. Not that you’d have to meet _me_ , just, you know...” he trailed off. Harry took the folder, looked up at the man. Did he imagine the blush that was spreading over the man’s pale skin?  
“Thanks” he said. The Healer took a deep breath and set his shoulders.  
“Ehm. I also added my personal information on that card, should you need some, eh. Encouragement.” Harry glanced at the little card clipped to the top. _Healer Rowan Lindsay_ , _Pedriatric Spell Damage_ , it said, followed by a floo address, and interestingly, a Muggle phone number. “You have a phone?” he asked, a little surprised. The healer was definitely looking a bit embarrassed now.  
“My ex-wife is Muggle” he said. _Aha_. That told Harry rather a lot about the man.  
“Well, don’t feel obliged, in any case. I’m aware it is, well, rather unprofessional.”  
Harry felt it was rather endearing, and he hadn’t thought that about someone in a long time.  
“Thank you, for everything.” He said, with feeling. “It’s my job, you know” the Healer replied, smiling.  
“Harry? Can we go now?” piped up Teddy, who was already in the hall, leaning in the doorway. He looked fine now, surprisingly. Just, not as colourful as usual, with his natural appearance on display.  
“Coming, Teddy!” he called out, and turned to leave. “See you next week” he said to the Healer. _Rowan_.  
“Yes, until then” he replied. Harry walked out to the hallway, where Hermione and Ron walked already with Teddy inbetween them, looking for all everyone knew like the perfect family. He caught up to them. “Let’s have pancakes for dinner, yeah?” and they went home.

He was exhausted, but relieved. He knew it would take a battle for him to get Teddy to take every potion; it contained powdered moonstone, and Teddy abhorred the taste it gave to potions. But for now, he could feel happy his godson was alright, and they would have pancakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really, this is only the first part of this chapter yet again. Since we need to know Draco's side of the story too, right? Coming right up; Draco being a good person and meddling with the best (and worst) intentions.


	10. Help will also be given, to those who do not ask for it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's two days after the Mungo's incident.  
> Draco is pestered to check on Harry and Teddy. He catches a glimpse of how bad the situation really is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels like a short chapter; nothing much happens. But Draco gets inside the door, and that matters to everyone, doesn't it?

Draco had raised his hand to the doorknocker two times already, but still felt unsure whether this was a good idea after all. There were _some_ people who certainly thought it was a good idea, by the missives they sent him. The first letter to arrive yesterday, after what he now called “The Mungo’s Incident” was from his mother. It had read as follows;  
  
 _“Dearest Draco,_

_It was reported that Mr. Potter had arrived with his godson for a medical emergency in St. Mungo’s early yesterday afternoon. As we are, to my deepest regrets, not currently on speaking terms with that side of the family, I must implore you to seek out the truth to these rumours. While that branch of the Blacks have been far removed from us for a long time, young Mr. Lupin is, after all, our blood. Let us remember our family traditions._

_Love, Mother”_  
  
Or, in other words; go check on the other last living Black heir, Draco dear, and soon. “Remember our family traditions”, ha. Stick your nose in the air, maybe get on the wrong side of the war, sure. Acknowledging half-bloods in the family, that was usually a step too far. Unless that family is dying off and your son is too gay to carry on the line; then it becomes acceptable to seek out ‘tainted blood’.  
Of course, he was being a bit too harsh on his mother. She meant well, after all. But intent did not absolve one from the responsibility of inexcusable behavior or truly abhorrent expressions of speech. He did not, however, think his mother untruthful in that she missed her only living sister, Aunt Andromeda. She hadn’t yet had the courage to contact her, after all these years, however. Never mind that it was apparently acceptable to send her own son to meddle in another family’s affairs, in the name of blood ties and ‘traditions’.  
Draco sighed. His mother’s missive might not have been overly convincing, despite his loyalty and love for her. No, another letter had come, later in the evening, from Mrs. Picklewilly, of all people. Her owl was a surprisingly mean thing with ribbons (!) tied to his clawed feet, and had tried to nip him when he wanted to take them off. What self-respecting owl allowed itself to be adorned was completely beyond him, but he was quietly impressed by its tenacity. Also, how had it even found his Muggle apartment!? Clearly he shouldn’t underestimate Mrs. Picklewilly more than he had already; she had some remarkable Snape-like tendencies in secret keeping. Her note, smelling faintly of radish preserves, had read:  
  
 _“Young Mr. Malfoy,_

_I could not help but notice the little altercation in Neville’s shop yesterday.  
It seems dear Mr. Potter has suffered another family drama.  
Perhaps, in the interest of our shared motivations, you should do well to check on him.  
Send my best regards, J. Picklewilly”_

While much more persuasive –she had a point, the old hag, in that the function was in less than a month and he had no proper relationship with Potter yet, it still wouldn’t have convinced him to actually be so crass as to barge into Potters house. No, what actually convinced him, was Neville.  
He had gone in this morning to _Spectral Sprouts_ , hoping to see Potter and ask about his cousin, and be done with the matter. Instead, he had found Neville, who was feeling rather shaky. Turned out, Hannah had sent a truly ordinary owl to him asking him to pick up more flour for her continued baking efforts. Literally, false alarm. He had apparated home only to find an exasperated Hannah I the kitchen, who shrieked at him that he should read letters tied to Mildred first before overreacting and apparating all over the place. Neville however, had turned his pleading brown eyes to Draco, and asked him with a trembling voice whether he had heard if Harry and Teddy were alright. And, upon hearing that Draco had no idea, had asked “if you couldn’t go and find out” and “if anyone was good at finding out things, it would be him, wouldn’t it?”. Good _grief_ , if he didn’t know Neville was honorouble and honest to his Gryffindor bones, than he would’ve been suspicious he’d been set upon by Mrs. Picklewilly. He had deftly avoided her trying to catch his eye when he left Spectral Sprouts, flipping up his collar against the chilly wind and oncoming rain.

So, here he stood. He had managed to pilfer the last two cinnamon rolls from the Muggle bakery in addition to a hideous monstrosity with whipped cream and strawberries which he imagined children might like, and het set out to Grimmauld Place. He was sure the girl from the bakery had laughed at him when he had ordered the cream _thing,_ his face no doubt displaying what he thought of it.  
He felt undeniably nervous. What business had he, to be standing here in front of the Black ancestral home, between the dilapidated garden hedges, the creaking gate, and in front of the dark wooden door with a gleaming, golden doorknocker. The doorknocker he had been trying to find the courage to actually _knock_. He took a deep breath, and knocked loudly, steadily, three times. He could hear the magical amplification inside, making sure his knocks carried to the occupiers of the house. He took a step back, and tried not to swallow his tongue with nerves. It was starting to drizzle, and he hoped Potter would answer the door soon or his hair would be ruined.  
As would his suit, for that matter. Of course he shouldn’t have worn the grey velvet when he knew he was going to be about. It would be utterly ruined. But it was a comfortable suit, warm enough to ward off the chill of spring this week. Plus, the waistcoat was embroidered with little bumblebees, which he imagined were rather adorable and disarming. At least, it was what the taylor had told him. Of course, this was also the taylor who had tried to sell him lilac tweed, which had given him disgusting flashbacks to Gilderoy Lockhart, and had instigated a lengthy coughing fit. But the velvet was tactile, and even his mother had complimented him on it when she had seen it first.  
After at least a minute he heard some loud banging coming from inside, and after another brief silence, the lock clicked, and Draco was suddenly faced with a gaunt looking Potter in what seemed to be his pyjamas; there was nothing that even gave the impression that what Potter was wearing was fit for public view. A ratty, large, knitted jumper fell off of one shoulder, Gryffindor red with a large W on the front. On his bottom half he wore joggers so threadbare they nearly approached see-through, although luckily the jumper was long enough to actually cover any parts that might lead to accusations of public indency. His mind was torn between worry at this appearance, and finding it all rather _cute_. Potter had swung open the door and blinked in the light, eyes squinting. Had he just woken up, perchance?  
“ ’Mione I got your owl already you don’t need to-”  
Draco coughed awkwardly. “I’m afraid I’m not Granger, Potter”. He stated, still disbelieving at Potters appearance. Potter frowned, squinted again. At this point Draco realized Potter wasn’t wearing his glasses; perhaps that was why he was squinting so much.  
“Malfoy?” he croaked.  
“The younger, yes. May I come in, Potter?” Draco motioned to step forward, but Potter didn’t move away.  
“What?” Potter croaked in confusion.  
“You’re not letting me in?”  
“Eh, no?” Potter seemed to ask him. Suddenly, there came a young voice from behind.  
“Who’s that?”. Teddy came and peeked from behind Potter’s shoulder, and Draco spotted tawny curls in a pale face, before it disappeared again. Potter moved back a bit more, half closing the door already. _Shit_ , no. Draco, get your act together!  
“I brought pastries!” he blurted out. The door halted.   
“What kind?” asked Teddy’s voice from behind Potter. Ah. Hermione was right. Pastries would get him in the door.  
“Cinnamon rolls and a sort of strawberry and cream mountain.” He said, raising his voice a little. Potter’s eyes widened a little, and he could see that his jumper was being pulled at from behind.  
“You know this man right? He has cinnamon rolls! We can eat the cinnamon rolls, right Harry?” Teddy’s hushed voice was clearly pleading in Potter’s jumper.  
Draco didn’t imagine the twitch in Potters cheek at this. Potters green eyes squinted at Draco again.  
“ _Fine._ Come in, bring your pastries, whatever.” And he widened the door reluctantly, Draco stepping inside with a grateful nod, holding the pastry bag in front of him as a shield.  
  
Potter lead them into the kitchen, and gestured to the table “Have a seat. Teddy, why don’t you get dressed and you can have a pastry.” Teddy, already poking inside the pastry bag complained loudly. “But! _You_ aren’t dressed, why do _I_ have to get dressed?”  
“It’s rude to greet guests in your pyjamas, Ted”. Draco thought it rather ironic, given the fact that Potter was literally wearing a shoulder bearing jumper and see through joggers. Moreover, Teddy’s pajama’s were rather nice and comfortable looking.  
“I think your pajamas are rather fetching, Edward” he commented offhandedly, hoping he wasn’t impertinent.  
Potter glared at him. “See, da-Harry, mister doesn’t mind, do you mister? ”  
“Not in the slightest. Are those Kneazles on broomsticks?” he leaned closer to the boy, inspecting the bizarre print on the green fabric.  
“Yes, isn’t it amazing?! They zoom around too, if you touch the buttons, look!” Teddy demonstrated for Draco, and he felt himself smile despite himself.  
“That _is_ rather clever, Edward”. If possible, Potter glared harder at him. He was losing the getting-dressed discussion, badly. With a put-upon sigh, Potter turned towards the kettle.  
“I’ll make some tea. Teddy, sit down.” Teddy grinned widely, and gingerly sat down across from Draco, looking at him with wide curious eyes.  
“Why do you call me Edward, mister? It’s weird.” Teddy wrinkled his nose.  
“Is that not your name?” he asked calmly. Potter meanwhile was grumpily putting plates in front of them. They had the black family crest on them in the middle, and gold foil trim. Rather lovely, if not a bit formal.  
“No one calls me Edward, mister”. Teddy stated, twisting impatiently in his seat.  
“Do you take sugar or milk, Malfoy?”.  
“A little cloud of milk, please.” Potter made him his tea, adding even more milk to Teddy’s, and put it in front of them. Then he took his own pitch-black concoction, and finally sat down. He looked worn and in a bad mood.  
“You should call me Teddy, mister.” said his little cousin confidently.  
“Well, then you should call me Draco, Teddy”. Teddy nodded seriously. Draco smiled at the boy. He thought he could like his cousin.  
Potter had fetched his glasses from somewhere, and had started to unpack the bakery bag.  
“Dare I ask why you are bringing us pastry, Malfoy?”. He had placed the two cinnamon rolls in front of Draco and Teddy, and Teddy’s eyes were taking on a sort of gleaming excitement. Draco felt rather the same; these cinnamon rolls _were_ rather drool-inducing.  
“Neville asked me to check on you. Hermione too, for that matter.”  
“Neville? But what- Hermione?”. Teddy had already attacked his cinnamon roll with gusto and was making loud noises of approval.  
Draco nodded towards Teddy, then gave Potter a pointed look. Potter looked angrily at his strawberry and cream pastry and started poking at it. Draco took the cue and took a large bite of his own.  
For a while, no one spoke as the pastries were devoured. Then, Draco noticed that the table started wobbling, ever so slightly. He frowned.  
With a screech of his chair, Potter jumped up and launched himself at Teddy.  
Only then did Draco notice that it was Teddy that was making the table stir; His hair was slowly changing colour and his limbs were shaking.  
“Teddy, hey, Ted, calm down” Potter took Teddy’s hands, clasped them tightly, Teddy continued to shake ever more violently.  
“Teddy, look at me, okay?” Potter pleaded.  
“..H..Hurts” the boy managed to choke out. Draco could do nothing but stare. What the hell was going on here? One minute they were eating pastries in awkard silence, the next there was a veritable crisis happening.  
“Malfoy, there’s a bottle upstairs in the bathroom, second door to the right. Bright blue. Get it, now!” With a curt nod, Draco rushed up the stairs, found the bottle, and quickly turned back. He had to jump over dirty towels lying on the floor, unwashed bedding in a corner, and he spotted a few dustbunnies scuttling away. _Merlin_. He rushed down, shoes making loud noises on the wooden stairs. Potter got a spoon and filled a measure.  
“Shh, Ted. You’ll be alright. Come on sweetheart, swallow this, yeah?” Potter pleaded, stroking Teddy’s face with one hand, the spoon in front of his lips with the other. Teddy moaned again, but opened his mouth wide enough.  
“Good, Ted. Look at me, okay?” Teddy grimaced as he swallowed, but the shaking subsided substantially.  
“Take a deep breath, now, come on sweetheart.” And Potter led Teddy through some deep breathing. Eventually, after several minutes, the curls turned brown again, and Teddy slumped against Potter. Frankly, Potter looked like crying too, stroking his godson’s back. Draco stood uselessly.  
This was pretty bad, all considering. Accidental magic was common in children, but this sort of seizures, he’d never seen before. Magic wasn’t supposed to _hurt_ like that.  
“Malfoy?” came Potter's voice, oddly calm. Draco stared at Potter, still frowning.  
“Yes, Potter?”  
“Can you help me get him to bed?” asked Potter, looking a bit lost.  
“Of course.” Draco stepped forward, took Teddy by his shoulders, and with Potter –stumbling, panicked Potter, carried him upstairs. Teddy’s bedroom was a messy marvel, a riot of colours, drawings, and clothes. They gently put Teddy’s limp form on his bed, and Potter covered him with a few blankets. He then proceeded to do a monitoring charm like healers used –rare, but Draco supposed it must’ve been part of his Auror training, frowned at it, and sighed.  
“He’s running a slight fever _again_ ”. His mouth was set.  
“Do we need to do anything about it?” Draco questioned. Potter looked up at him, surprised.  
“ _We_ don’t need to do anything, Malfoy.” His tone was defensive.  
“Just here to help, Potter” he replied calmly, despite his own worry. It was _his_ cousin, lying on the bed like that.   
“Well, are you? –Here to help, I mean?” Potter asked him, sounding flat and tired.  
“Amongst other things” he answered cryptically, although not unkind. Potter sighed at that.  
“I don’t know what I expected, honestly” he muttered under his breath, and moved to the door.  
“Let’s go downstairs. You can ask whatever Hermione wants to know, and tell her to stop pestering me with owls.” Potter proceeded to exit the room, and Draco followed him. But before he closed the door, he waved his wand quickly a couple of times. Clothes started folding themselves into neat piles, sorting itself in laundry and clean clothes, the former trailing behind Draco to the hallway. Another flick of his wand gathered all the other laundry lying around, and he directed that to the washing room he knew must be next to the bathroom. Quickly following Potter downstairs, he twirled his wand and vanished all the dust in the hallway. It was the least he could do, here. He gave the stairs the same treatment, and waited until Potter had his back turned to the kettle for more tea before doing the same to the kitchen. Potter blinked a bit at the suddenly gleaming surfaces when he turned around, but sat down with a shrug. Silence fell. Draco cleared his throat softly.  
“Will he be okay?” he asked.  
“Why do you care?” Potter bit back, but without conviction.  
Draco debated his answer. He found he _did_ care. It wasn’t just because he knew the boy was a distant relative. But it was also Potter, who was supposed to be living as the great hero, the winner of the war, and he was so obviously struggling. Sitting in front of him in threadbare clothes, looking tired, his house an utter mess and his godson sick. And some _prick_ had dumped him, for whatever unfathomable reason, and now Potter was licking his wounds in Neville’s flowershop, dejected, stashed away like he had lost his use. Like he wasn’t the _one_ person the whole nation had to thank for their safety and welfare. It made him sick. He’d never admit it out loud, but he thanked all the gods above that Potter _had_ won the war. He still suffered from nightmares in which he was trapped in what used to be reality, pain and torture and all-encompassing fear. He settled on honesty, as much as he was capable of.  
“I just _do_ , Potter.”  
Potter looked at him, considering. He seemed to decide to take him at face value.  
“How did you know about the cinnamon roll? It’s Teddy’s favourite.” Draco tried not to look smug; it had, after all, been coincidence.  
“Ahem. I intended the strawberry cream thing for him, actually. It seemed more… age appropriate?” he cocked his head slightly. “ _You_ seemed to like it fine though. I’m glad”. Potter rolled his eyes at the weak jab.  
“I’m not allowed to tell Molly that these cinnamon rolls are better than hers, you know”. Potter nodded to the bag, which proclaimed “ _Raisin & Prune_” in cheery orange lettering. At Draco’s surprised look, Harry laughed. “You’re not the only one Hermione drags to that shop to eat carrot cake with, you know”. Draco laughed despite himself.  
“Dare I ask?” he grinned.  
“I don’t think I’ve had a proper lunch since Hermione discovered it, honestly”  
“Well, that would explain all the long lunches she takes without me. I’ve limited her carrot-cake consumption to twice a week, you know. I’m trying to be responsible or I’ll get Weasley on my back”. Harry grinned again. “Well, he’s not much better. He gets her anything she wants.”  
“Oh, I know. I’ve seen the snack drawer.” Draco waves a dismissive hand, still grinning.  
“My teeth are going to rot soon, what with Hannah’s baking, Mrs. Picklewilly’s fruitcake, and Hermione’s pregnancy cravings. I don’t think Teddy remembers what vegetables look like, honestly” Potter groaned. Draco felt himself smile, again. It was all rather ridiculous: the bombardment of sweets going round, the mess Potter was in, and now this; him sitting in Potters kitchen in the Black ancestral home.  
“Well, next time I’ll get something more nutritious, then”. He said, before he could stop himself. He found he _did_ want to come back. To get to know his cousin, of course.   
Potter looked up again, raised his eyebrows.  
“Will there be a next time, then?” he asked. Did Draco imagine it, or did Potter look rather…curious at the prospect? Draco tapped his fingers on the table lightly.  
“I’m sure Hermione will send me ‘round again, Potter”. Potter frowned a bit. Draco felt wrongfooted again. Was that not the right answer? The grin had fallen of Potter's face. _Oh no._  
“I think you should go, Malfoy. You see, we’re fine. Tell Hermione that.” Potter raised himself up, the neckline of his shoulder again falling off one shoulder.  
“Actually, Potter, I’m not sure I can tell Hermione that”.   
Potter looked at him from under lowered brows. He looked rather grumpy, but it was hard to take a man seriously who was wearing something so ~~adorable~~ ridiculous.  
“Malfoy. Get out”. Potter grumbled.  
Draco got up, straightened his suit.  
“Very well.” He turned, and Potter followed him to the door. He hadn’t really got his answers, but he knew the situation was pretty awful. He turned, and saw Potter glancing upstairs briefly before looking at him again. “Potter, send Neville an owl, would you? He’s truly worried.” He picks an imaginary piece of lint off his sleeve. Potter sighs. “Sure. Bye, Malfoy” he states, and opens the door. Draco steps out, looks back with a small smile. “See you tomorrow, Potter.” He quickly walks off, and hears a grumbled “Tomorrow!? Wait… What!” behind him, but he Apparates before Potter can come after him.  
He lands in his own living room, and takes out a notepad and a Muggle ballpoint to start making a grocery list. He might as well. He needs to get inside that door again.  
Now, if writing his mother back was as easy as writing a shopping list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very stressed as my thesis is nearly due, and it's not the easiest time to write atm. Thank you SO MUCH for the kudos, and a special thank you for those who have left comments. They truly make my day <3.


	11. A precious gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief and very sappy interlude; A conversation between Teddy and Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a day off from thesis writing, and wrote this little interlude for you all!  
> I've had the first sentence of this chapter floating around in my head for ages.
> 
> I also want to thank those of you who left comments in the last few weeks, they were wonderful, and helpful too! I admit, I read them repeatedly when I was struggling with my thesis this week, just for encouragement.

“Harry, why can’t I call you dad?”. Harry glanced up from his bowl of cereal, feeling sucker punched all of a sudden. They were eating sugary cereal for dinner, the nonmagical kind he always got from Tesco’s.

Teddy was up, feeling better after another round of potions, and had agreed to eat something. Not having much in the house, they had another “breakfast for dinner” situation. Definitely not what either Molly nor Mrs. Granger would have provided, he was sure. But, it was the best he could do.

The question blindsided him. Teddy was nine now. They’d had something like this conversation before, when Teddy, at five, had called him “daddy” after spending the week at Bill and Fleur’s, and making friends with some of the nearby Muggle children. Bill had taken him aside quickly when he had seen Harry drain of colour, stating that the other kids had asked Teddy where his mom and dad were. In kid-logic, of course Harry was his dad. He was the one raising him, the only “grown up” he knew to take care of him; memories of Andromeda - “Nana” – taking care of him had already begun to fade. After all, Teddy had become his to take care of at three.

At five, and in the years since, Harry had brought up the subject of Remus and Tonks often, no matter how much it hurt him. He wanted Teddy to know his wonderful, brave parents. When the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts came around, and Harry couldn’t sleep regardless, he and Teddy curled up in Sirus’ room, and look through what little pictures he had of Remus, and the wealth of pictures of Tonks he had been given by Andromeda. He would tell stories about them, as much as he could bear, so Teddy would know them. More than he had every been able to know, as a child, about his own parents. He was certain Teddy knew he _had_ parents; parents that had _loved_ him, wanted him to have a future. And had died fighting for that. 

He had paused too long. Teddy opened his mouth again.  
“I know I have, you know, a mother and a father” he continued. A bit hesitant, but persistent. He let his spoon clatter in his empty bowl. Harry flinched a bit, nerves taught.  
“Remus and Tonks” Harry whispered. Teddy nodded, shifted in his seat. His hands were clenched in his lap, shoulders tight.  
“Why this, all of a sudden, Ted?” he asked cautiously. He looked Teddy over, his honey-coloured hair, his pale, thin face. Amber eyes turned to him, unsure. Harry’s heart clenched.  
Teddy drew breath, blew it out again. Haltingly, he said “In the h-hospital, you- ” he drew another breath “you called me your son. You did!” he pierced Harry with a look.  
“Oh sweetheart” he muttered. His throat felt tight. Teddy was Remus’ and Tonks’ son. _Theirs_. But also _his_ , undoubtedly. He cleared his throat.  
“But, Teddy, I’m _not_ your dad.” Teddy was rigid in his chair. His clenched hands were wringing back and forth. “But! Aren’t you?” Teddy’s voice gained in pitch and volume. “You do everything Bill does for Victoire, and he’s _her_ dad!”. Harry ceded the point.  
“Yes, but-”  
“You help me with homework, and you make rules, and you take me everywhere, and you help me control my magic and-” Harry held up a hand.  
“Yes, I know, Teddy, but-”  
“NO! you called me _your_ son, in Mungo’s. You did!” Teddy had jumped up, looking ready to spit fire, despite that he had been vomiting not an hour earlier.   
“I know I did, Teddy. You _are_ my kid; I’m your godfather. Remus is your dad, you know that.”  
“I kno-how” Teddy emphasized impatiently. “But he isn’t here. You are. You’re my dad, too”. His little pup looked at him defiantly, a stubborn tilt to his jaw.   
Harry felt, not for the first time, guilty. Guilty for the role he was playing in Teddy’s life, that should’ve been Remus’. Guilty for not being better than he had been, stopping Voldemort from taking the lives he had. From robbing Teddy of the parent’s he should have had. And, deeply insecure, feeling hopelessly inadequate; who was he kidding. He wasn’t a _real_ father, was he? How could he be so central to Teddy’s existence? After all, he was still just Harry.

Then he wondered, looking at the pleading child in front of him, why he was protesting so hard. He had taken care of Teddy for years; kissed his scrapes better, taken him to the play park, held him when he had nightmares. Sure, he wasn’t great at all the “real adult” stuff; the cleaning up, setting strict schedules, or even getting him to eat proper food. But then, he thought, Sirius hadn’t done any of those things either, and Harry had still wanted, so desperately, to be Sirius’ family. To live with him, in this very house. Hell, he might have wanted to call Sirius _dad_ , had he been given the chance. But they hadn’t; Sirius had never been free to be what he could’ve been to Harry. But he had left Harry knowing he was loved, and cherished, and worth dying for. _So what_ if Teddy wanted to call him dad? What a small thing to ask for. What a precious, unexpected gift. He sighed.  
“Come here, Ted” he said softly .Teddy walked into his outstretched arms, stood between his legs. They were eye to eye, and he stroked the brown hair on _his kid’s_ head. He half expected a protest from Teddy that he was too old to be babied, or cuddled, or whatever, but it didn’t come.  
“You know you are my family, yeah?” he started, still unsure. Teddy blinked at him, and nodded.  
“I don’t want you to forget your parents, you understand? They loved you so much” Harry stated.  
“I _know_ that” Teddy didn’t even roll his eyes.  
“And you _are_ my family, you _are_ my child. I meant what I said in the hospital, Ted”. A hopeful little smile was spreading on Teddy’s young face.  
“So, that’s a yes?” Teddy asked, a bit squeaky. Harry stroked his hair again.  
“That’s a yes”. Teddy exclaimed something unintelligible and flung himself at Harry. From this distance, even if Teddy was small, it took the wind out of him.  
“Easy, Ted. You still need to get to bed soon.” Teddy pulled back. “Can we play exploding snap first?” he pleaded. Harry cracked. His heart was full, and he was rubbish at being strict anyway.  
“Sure, kiddo. But then, bedtime!”. Teddy grinned, unrepentant.  
“Yes, dad”. Harry couldn’t help it; he smiled as well.

Having put Teddy to bed after, he went down to sign up for the single-parent support group.  
If he was going to be a proper dad, he could try to be a better one, at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thesis should be finished in two weeks, and I'll resume writing lengthier and more in-depth chapters again.  
> Want a little teaser?  
> The next chapter starts with; "I think Malfoy is up to something" ;)


	12. Proceed gently

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco accepts Hermione's proposal, and gets her permission. Even if she doesn't exactly know what she's agreeing to entirely. A little Draco-Teddy bonding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thesis beast has been slain! Or rather, subdued. I'm waiting for approval to rewrite my draft, and then submit it for my defense.  
> I am sorry it took this long to get back to this fic, but let me be clear; I WILL NOT ABANDON THIS FIC. This fic will be finished within the next months.  
> Meanwhile, I received so many lovely comments, and they lifted my spirits enormously. I am overflowing with gratitude, and I will get back to every one of you as soon as I can. I prioritized writing a new chapter first, however.
> 
> I admit, I'm so tired that I am sure there will be mistakes in this one, more than in previous chapters. I apologize.

_Shite._ Utter shite.  
Draco looked down at the file of information in front of him, willing himself nog to break something in his anger. It wouldn’t do, to make a fuss in the office, least of all over this. Lawrence had come by his apparment this morning, black circles on his eyes and a shit-eating grin on his face. He’d dropped down on his couch, put his booted feet on his coffee table, and scarfed down the breakfast Draco gave him. He’d tried to look disgruntled, but he was pleased Lawrence had managed to dig up something so quickly. He definitely hadn’t talked to his aunt yet, or she would’ve forced some food down him. Maybe mended the hole in the elbow of his shirt.  
He flicked his eyes over the crisp, Muggle printer-paper again, and sighed. He definitely needed to stop feeling sorry for Potter, for crying out loud. So _what_ if that Marcus Belby had apparently started an underhanded campaign with Edgecombe to give the conservatives a stronghold in Enforcement? So what if Potter's ex turned out to be even more of a prick than he had already suspected? Belby had managed to push for more active tracking on former Death Eaters, as well as what were now called “disruptors of public order”. In this case, Hermione’s people. Their network was being targeted, not even that subtly. And he personally could be affected by these developments, too. Shite.  
They had been trying to build a wider network of Non-Magical Members of Wizarding society: Muggle families with Magical children, and Squibs. In the department they all took took turns talking to families, engaging them in conversation. For starters, they wanted to ease the transition from Muggle family life to having children go to Hogwarts, as well as helping to ease the strain of accidental Magic. It was one of their longest running projects, and started with Hermione herself going to people she knew, convincing her parents to help. They too, had felt so out of place, not knowing how to help their daughter. In the reverse, this was happening to Melany and Parvati as well, having a Squib son and wondering how best to help him, love him, when he was going to venture in a world they didn’t know. “Disruptors of public order” _my arse_ , he thought. They were indeed toeing the line with the Statute of Secrecy, but that was why they employed Madame Beauregard, who had given them the exact parameters in which to work. And a stern gaze complete with approving nod.   
At least Lawrence hadn’t cottoned on to the fact that Belby was Potter’s ex, even if he now knew the name, although that couldn’t last long. Then he would be back, with his shit-eating grin, putting his boots on Draco’s couch and asking all about the wizarding hero that everyone knew about and that he found ‘roguishly handsome, if you’re into that sort of thing’. And then he would wink at Draco, meaningfully. Draco groaned. He should have _never_ let Lawrence meet Potter.  
“Focus, Draco” he muttered under his breath. So, what to do about this information? If it got out, it would definitely hurt Potter, and by extension, Hermione. And in her state, he didn't want to risk anything, even if it made him an 'overbearing dragon'. He huffed. Ron had no right to call him that, since he was the one padding Hermione's chairs and escorting her home every day. Nevertheless she needed to know that certain departments were infringing on their freedom of movement. His eyes flicked to another piece of information concerning Reginald Edgecombe. Beautiful Edgecombe was using his good looks in more departments, or rather, _beds_ , than Belby probably knew. He was sleeping with some of the wives of the other pureblood conservatives. _Discreetly_ , of course. And while that would seem to be perfect leverage, he first had to know who was _in_ on it. Perhaps Belby and Edgecombe had a sort of _arrangement_. Perhaps Edgecombe had arrangements with a whole lot of other people. The entire thing reeked of old blood and intrigue, and he was disgusted by it. And it had nothing to do with how he felt about Potter. He didn’t feel anything about Potter! Nor with how he was envious of that shiny sheet of hair Edgecombe was sporting. Who even had hair like that? He was sure it was a hair potion. Maybe he should consider switching brands-  
“Draco? Don’t we have an appointment with Hermione?” came a clear, high voice from the door. He looked up. Jasmin stood in his doorway, a bit uncertain, fidgeting with the braid hanging over one shoulder. “Miss Lacewell. Yes, thank you. Go ahead, I’ll be right with you.” He quickly shuffled the papers back into plastic folder he got from Lawrence –Muggle, with a fat yellow teddybear on the front eating honey, and sealed it magically.   
Entering Hermione’s office, he found her being served tea by Jasmin before they all took seats. He quickly looked her over, and though she looked good, he could see that she was worried. Her curly hair wasn’t as well conditioned, and she had small lines of strain next to her mouth, as if she had clenched her jaw a lot. Hmm. Better ask about it, then. But later, after Jasmin had left. “Let’s start”, he prompted, and let Jasmin take the lead.   
Their meeting ended, and Jasmin smiled confidently when she left them. She was doing so well he wanted to introduce her to Lawrence: they would be formidable at pulling threads and finding out things. If only he wasn’t afraid he would corrupt her completely, he would’ve. But he could only deal with one nosey-parker in his personal life. If Jasmin ever got confident enough, he was quite sure no one’s secrets would be safe any longer, and that just wouldn’t do.

Hermione smiled at him, tiredly. “I’m happy we put her on it; she’s acclimatizing well to the intersectionality of Wizarding and Muggle research”. Draco smirked back. “Oh, but I remember you couldn’t possibly hire her, such a young, innocent little girl.” He mocked. Hermione groaned.  
“Oh shush! I was still having issues with delegating then”.  
“You _were_ having issues? Like you wouldn’t prefer to do it all by yourself and never leave the office again” he teased. It was still a bit new, teasing Granger. But they were improving.   
Hermione laughed, looked a bit guilty.  
“You know me too well, Draco. It’s weird.” He grinned, winked at her. When a comfortable silence fell, he waited a moment, and then delicately breached the subject.  
“How are… things?” Hermione narrowed her eyes at him.  
“Do be more specific, Draco.” Her tone was a bit sharp. Hermione lost her patience when she was tired, he knew.   
“Well, I’m not talking about the baby.” He probed quietly.  
She sighed. “You heard about Teddy”. It wasn't a question, but Draco nodded, crossed his legs.  
“Indeed I did. I was there when Potter got the floo call from Mrs. Weasley”. Hermione’s eyes widened.  
“Harry didn’t tell me! Ron and I met him in Mungo’s. It was... awful.” Her voice was heavy with emotion. Draco debated whether to mention he had already visited Grimmauld place, but chose not to. He wasn’t sure Hermione would approve the way he went about it, and he didn’t want to be stopped yet. He still needed Potter. But he could plant the seed for her approval, today. He tapped his finger to his lips, considering.  
“I’m certain you are aware that young Mr. Lupin is my cousin.” Hermione lifted her gaze to his, shrewd.  
“What are you planning, Draco?”. He tried very hard not to approve of her insight. If it wasn’t for her sense of fairness, she would’ve ruled the Slytherin common room.  
He let hesitation creep into his voice.  
“I… feel the need to concern myself with his wellbeing.” He ventured. He looked askance at Hermione, saw her mouth form a skeptical line.  
“I thought you hadn’t reconciled with Andromeda and Teddy” she stated, a bit curt.  
Irritation flared. “No, that is correct.” He felt his nostrils flare, and willed the flush on his cheeks to recede.  
“Then why-”  
“If you _must_ know, just because we don’t speak doesn’t mean we can’t _care_ , Granger” he bit out, revealing a bit more than he wanted. God, it was like pulling teeth, talking to Gryffindors. Sweet Salazar. He felt prickly all over.  
Hermione gave a startled laugh.  
“Well, alright then. No need to get all defensive.” He eyed her suspiciously, and reminded himself that he _liked_ her. She was his _friend_.  
Hermione sighed. “Well, I can’t say I’m not concerned, really. Teddy should be fine in a few weeks, but then I’m sure we should be looking into how he can be so frightened by a Boggart, and how his magic is apparently so out of control, which probably has to do with the war, so I think perhaps a Mind Healer, but then-”  
“Slow down, Granger” he interrupted her, and grasped her hand to squeeze it in comfort. She took a deep breath, gave a weak smile. “Sorry, I know I can ramble on”.  
“I don’t mind,” he smiled at her “as long as you take a breath in-between to give us mere mortals time to catch up”. Her smile widened, he noticed in satisfaction.  
“So, Teddy will be fine,” he probed again, even though he knew it wasn’t that simple. “why are you so worried, then, Hermione?”   
She smiled again “You never call me that”.  
“Perhaps it’s time” he answers, flicking his eyes towards her stomach with a smirk.  
“Oh, god, Draco, have you decided then?” a radiant smile overtook her face, and she grabbed his hand again. He nodded.   
“It would be an honour to be godfather to your child, Hermione”.  
Tears sprung in her eyes, and he himself felt his throat clench. She came from behind the desk to hug him tighly, and the breath wooshed out of him. He couldn’t help but feel excited. He knew the instant she asked him, weeks ago, that he would say yes. It was an inevitability, he would never refuse Hermione. On the other hand, he had many misgivings about how suitable he was to the task; former Death Eater. Single. Queer. By all accounts, having had a bad parental example in his own father, and a very debatable godfather in Severus. But, yet again, he tamped down on those insecurities and decided to trust Ron and Hermione; it was their decision, after all. And, he was unbearably flattered. He looked again at Hermione in his arms, practically vibrating in merriment.  
“Oh, I’m so excited! Do you mind if I tell Ron after work? And we should tell Harry, too, since he’s going to be godfather as well, and-”  
“Potter?” he exclaims. Pulling apart from her, he steps back.  
“Why, yes, of course Harry will be the other godparent” she frowns a bit at him, although her eyes still sparkle. “Who else would Ron ask, you silly Slytherin?”. He tries to hold back a groan but fails. He hears Hermione laugh again, and he knows he’s being laughed at.  
“Well, he hasn’t accepted yet, but then, we haven’t wanted to push the issue, ever since Marcus-” she again halted abruptly. The mood shifted, again back to the seriousness it had before.  
“It’s not a secret, Hermione. Everyone knows he’s been dumped” he said, carefully neutral.

She sighed again. “yes, well, it doesn’t make it any less awful. He’s…. I’m not sure how he is, actually”. She raised her hand to her hair, messed it up even more, and leant against the desk.  
“You could tell me, you know”. Hermione looks at him.  
“I know you can keep a secret, Draco. I just don’t think Harry would want me to share”.  
Draco inclines his head. “I’m sure he wouldn’t, considering I’m still his arch nemesis” He smiles wryly.  
“Oh shush, that’s not true! To be fair, I don’t even really know how he’s coping. He’s always running around and smiling like he’s dealing, and meanwhile he’s getting skinnier and grown a beard!” she exclaims, exasperated. Draco laughed.  
“So I hear.” Hermione narrowed her eyes at him again. Silence fell. Draco hoped, silently.  
“Hmm. Maybe you could check up on them.” _Yes_.  
Draco pretended to mull it over. “Check on Teddy, you mean?” A little smile started playing on Hermione’s lips.  
“Of course. He’s your family, you want to make amends. It would only make sense, wouldn’t it?”. Draco grinned slyly at her.  
“Of course.”  
“Perhaps you should bring pastries. No one can refuse pastries” she adds. He laughs. She needn’t know she already had given him such advice, on more than one occasion. And it had gotten him through the door. Pastries were in personal manners what flowers were in professional ones. Only without the subversive texts.  
“Of course. I would be a bad godfather-to-be if I forgot _pastries_.’’ He mocks again. Now he had gotten her approval, he could carry on more easily. Wooing Potter to the function, back into politics, all the while re-establishing family ties. It couldn’t possibly be more perfect. He had already planned to drop by the market on his way home.

-

He apparates to the square in front of Grimmauld Place, laden with a large brown bag full of fresh produce and other food assortments. His arms ache: food didn’t adjust to sizing charms well, and he didn’t want to risk spoiling the cheese. His robes were warm, and he wished he had worn a lighter weave. He was sweating, and it wasn't from nerves, definitely not, he tells himself. It was just too warm, early summer and all. He quickly makes for the dark front door, and knocks the door knocker. He again hears the sound reverberate magically inside the house. He steels himself for another wait, but this time he hears the lock click after only a few moments.  
A small voice calls out “Who’s there?”. Draco is pleased. No Potter to deny him entry, then.  
“It’s Draco, I was here a few days ago.”  
He hears the voice exclaim a high pitched “oh!” and the door opens immediately, revealing the pale form of Teddy Lupin. Not in pajamas, but in another curious ensemble. Draco finds he can appreciate the red corduroy pants and purple starry t-shirt, which is complemented by purple buckled boots not unlike the ones elderly Wizarding folk seem to favor. Teddy is smiling at him, even if he looks a bit peaky. While he knew that Teddy was a metamorphmagus, this seemed to be his unmagicked self. Perhaps a side effect from the potions?

“Hello mister Draco” Teddy greets him politely, and moves back to let him enter. He steps through the front door and feels the flicker of wards when he’s admitted. Curious. Potter could’ve easily kept him out by locking the wards to him. “Hello, mister Teddy” he winks at the boy, who grins back.

A voice comes from upstairs. “Ted? Who’s there? I’ll be right down, after I get this muck-” his speech was interrupted by some squelching noises and incomprensible curses. Draco turns curiously to Teddy, who is grinning wickedly. “We’ll be in the kitchen, dad!” he yells up. Dad? When did _that_ happen, Draco wonders, but follows the boy into the kitchen.  
“Ooooh, you brought food!” Teddy exclaims, when Draco puts down the bag on the table, huffing. He was still hot, but smiled at his cousin. He definitely looked better than last time, although that wasn’t saying much. He hears an enormous crash coming from upstairs, followed by even more curses. Teddy glances up, grins again.  
“Do I want to know what that is about?” Draco asks, unable to contain his curiosity.  
“Ehm” Teddy starts, and starts rummaging around in the grocery bag, putting some fruit on the table. “I got some slime buckets from uncle George’s shop…” he starts. Draco raises an eyebrow, trying to contain the spill of images in his head. He fails.  
“Am I to understand that Potter is upstairs covered in slime?” he manages, before a laugh escapes him. Teddy smile is pure satisfaction.  
“It is green and has yellow mushrooms! He looks dis-GUS-ting” Teddy giggles, and he looks like he hasn’t been ill in ages, happy. Draco laughs too. How opportune, really, since it’ll give him time to start dinner before Potter throws him out.  
“Wanna cook dinner before your dad finds out I’m here?” he asks the boy, and his eyes light up. “You can cook?” he asks in wonder.  
“Potter doesn’t cook?” he frowns. Teddy cocks his head. “He cooks breakfast. And cereal.” _Aha_. Draco starts unpacking the bag further as Teddy is starts to eat an apple. He doesn’t mention washing it, and lets him at it.  
“Well, I didn’t buy cereal, actually” he admits. He had intended to bring them some healthy dinner foods, things that would make Potter less pale, maybe wean Teddy off the pastries. Trying not to sound too much like a boring adult he states:  
“How about we cook a proper family dinner, Teddy?”. Teddy shrugs, slurping around the juice of the apple rolling down his chin.  
“Okay. Can we have curry?” he asks. Draco halts. Curry? That wasn’t on his list. Bloody hell. He hasn’t ever made it. Had eaten it, shamefaced, at Ron and Hermione’s place, when they had a ‘take-out night’, and loved it. Especially the naan. He should learn to do so immediately. Scrambling, he tries:  
“Well, we can do curry next time, if you wish. How about some chicken and baked potatoes today?”. Teddy nods again, smiling, mouth full of apple. Mother would be horrified at Teddy’s lack of manners, but what could be expected in Potters household? He smiles again at Teddy glad he seemed agreeable to not-curry, and starts gathering some ingredients. He directs Teddy to put away the other foodstuffs, which he thankfully does. Then he makes him wash his hands before actually starting to cook. Draco doesn't want to risk any slime bucket residue contamination. Teddy looks fascinated by all the chopping and washing. When Draco puts perfectly chopped carrots to boil, he hears creaking of the floorboards.  
Ah, Potter will have arrived now then. He resists turning around to see if some of the slime –merlin, green, with mushrooms!?- has remained.  
Draco hears Potter take a seat behind them, but decides to ignore him. If he's not being chased from the house, he's staying. Teddy is next to him on a little stool, excitedly looking over all the magical cooking. Usually Draco doesn’t use that much magic in the kitchen; the stirring and chopping reminds him of potions, and calms him down after a day of work. But little Teddy seems completely suprised. Didn’t Potter cook proper meals, _ever_? If he could manage breakfast, he should be able to manage simple dinners, as well. He put the thought aside, and focuses again on the child besides him.  
Teddy was rambling on about how Molly Weasley could have six pans on the hob at the same time and still spot them slacking on their reading assignments when her back was turned. It seemed. Mrs. Weasley engendered both admiration and a healthy dose of apprehension in him, and Draco was impressed. Then again, with her whole team of kids and undoubtedly half-team of grandkids, she was definitely a true veteran in the art of raising and homeschooling children. Draco focused on keeping his three pots a-stir, and checked on the little puddings in the oven. It wasn’t really something special, mashed potatoes, carrots and peas, pan-fried chicken, but it was wholesome and easy to make.  
Incidentally, one of the first things he had learned to make for himself, after moving to a mostly-muggle neighbourhood and trying a recipe from a book the previous owner had left. The puddings were a recent addition to his repertoire, finicky little custards. He had shed his outer robes in favor of his grey slacks and blue shirtsleeves, even if he felt a bit exposed. He had resisted rolling up his cuffs, not sure what Teddy would think of the mangled Dark Mark on his arm. He was certain Potter would throw him out immediately upon seeing it.  
Potter, meanwhile, was sitting quietly at the table, no doubt watching the spectacle Draco was making of his kitchen. _Well, let him look_ , he reminded himself. This was _nice_ , cooking with his cousin. He flicks his wand, and a pre-prepared cup of tea, dark like Potter had taken it before, floats over to him. A surprised noise comes from behind him, and Draco suppresses a smile.  
He shows Teddy how to use the salt and pepper shaker, and the nine-year old is going ham on it, his whole body involved. It doesn’t even occur to Draco to halt him, so endearing is his enthusiasm. Eventually, when he can’t delay it any longer, he turns around to start setting the table.   
His gaze meets Potters’, who looks not furious, but weary, holding his tea in both of his hands. Draco attempts a small smile, but Potter makes no move to return it. _Hmm_. At least Teddy’s there to fill the awkward silence, crunching noises coming from his enthusiastic seasoning.  
“Maybe that’s enough salt, there, Ted” Potter tells him, tiredly. Teddy stops, turns around.  
“I hear you had an unfortunate slime-incident, Potter”, Draco starts, attempting a jest. Potter groans, but his eyes twinkle.  
“Ted, is this revenge for the potions? Can we have a truce already?” he starts pleading jokingly, and Teddy smiles beautificially at Potter. Potter sighs again, but can't halt a smile. “I should tell you off, you know. I'm not sure the shower will ever recover from the mushrooms” He adds. Teddy has never looked so angelic as in this moment, on the stool with shaker in hand, large eyes gleaming. Potter groans again, and he meets Draco’s eyes, who is utterly bemused.  
They seem to almost understand eachother instantly, a ‘ _Can you believe this kid?’_ met with a ‘ _good luck with that one, Potter'_.  
Potter focuses again on Teddy, tries to look stern, but it’s a hopeless case and they all know it.  
‘‘You know, _this_ is me telling you off, Teddy”. Teddy laughs, perks up even more, and jumps off of the stool to hug Harry, who slings an arm around Teddy’s shoulder.  
“We cooked dinner, Harry” he says, excitedly.  
“Did you?” Harry asks in exaggerated surprise. Teddy answers enthusiastically, and Draco continues setting the table. No table cloth, no napkins, no candles. Utter _heathens_ in this household. He grumbles. It feels nice nonetheless, Teddy rambling to Potter, the kitchen feeling warm and smelling like simple, hearty fare. He catches himself humming and stops just in time to see Potter look up in surprise at him. He smiles deprecatingly, but tells himself to keep his cool. No use getting carried away here, he has a goal! Even if it is all very nice, and homely, and awfully plebeian.  
At some point Potter had flicked his wand at the wireless, and they settled down to dinner. The silence was only broken up by the wireless and Teddy’s chattering, but it wasn’t all that awkward. Draco noticed with satisfaction that both Potter and Teddy ate their plates clean.  
  
After the puddings have been eaten, Teddy is obviously flagging. The colour he regained with his cooking enthusiasm has leached from his face, and he’s slumped in his seat. Potter has spotted it as well, and strokes his brown hair.  
“Time for your potion, Ted”. Draco tries not to shudder at the utmost gentle tone in Potters voice. Teddy buries his face in Potters chest, looking reluctant but resigned. Potter strokes his head again, and gets up to get the blue bottle he had directed Draco to last time. Draco meanwhile starts cleanup, leaving Teddy be.  
After the potion, Potter comes to stand next to him at the sink. Teddy has his face propped on his arms, eyes falling closed. “Thanks for dinner, Malfoy” he says quietly. Draco looks at him. “You’re welcome, Potter” he answers. They work in tandem, cleaning, and the air turns a bit expectant. It shouldn’t be so easy, Draco washing up the Muggle way, Potter drying and putting away dishes. So perfectly coordinated. Then, a small thump alerts them to Teddy’s having fallen asleep right at the table. Potter shoots Draco a wry smile, and quicky turns to Teddy.  
“Let’s get you to bed, sweetheart” and ever so gently, he guides Teddy up the stairs, leaving Draco in the kitchen with the dishes. He looks around debating whether he could get away with more cleaning charms than last time, and decides _yes_. Leaving the sink for a bit, he quickly moves to the hallway, where he had seen some dustbunnies when entering earlier. Flicks of his wands clear the dust, and the boots in the entryway line up neatly, clacking their heels together. He leaves the mirror on the wall above a now gleaming dark side table, since that is done better with a decent rag the Muggle way. He doesn’t dare move towards the sitting room next door, but he can still do some more in the kitchen. Within minutes, the carpet beneath the table is dustfree, the little sofa backing the wall has its cushions fluffed, and all the dinnerware is back in its proper place.  
He lights the wall sconces and has just turned back to the sink, satisfied with the warm, low glow, when he hears Potter coming downstairs again. _Calm, Draco_ , he chides himself. _Pretend you haven’t done anything_.   
“Malfoy?” Potter comes up behind him.  
“Yes, Potter?” he asks innocently. He sticks his hands again in the soapy water, the clean lemon smell rising in the air.  
“Perhaps you should leave” Potter says, not unkind. He sounds confused, unsure. Without turning around, Draco gives a dismissive shrug.  
“Sure, Potter. Just let me finish this first, yes?” and he gestures to the sink awkwardly. Potter sighs, and seems to take him at his word, plopping down on the little sofa and turning up the wireless a little. There’s a Weird Sisters reunion special playing, and Draco hums along with the tunes he knows. He doesn’t see Potters eyes lingering on him.  
An idea strikes him suddenly, and he takes out a little pot, some milk, and cacao powder. After some rummaging around, he manages to find some vanilla and maple syrup, and sets to work while he charms the towel to dry the remaining dishes. After a few minutes, he pours the chocolate milk into a mug –obviously handmade, a bright blue monstrosity dotted with yellow and brown blobs, perhaps designed by Teddy- and turns around only to discover that Potter has fallen asleep on the couch.   
In sleep, Potters face is slack, but he looks even more exhausted. His grungy grey t-shirt has slid to the side at the neck to reveal a too-bony collarbone. His beard is wild, his hair even wilder, and he has pushed his glasses askew. Draco sighs, tries not to feel concerned, or sorry. They haven’t really had a conversation yet, but it hardly seems the time to start one. You can’t really charm a tired person into being agreeable. Or at least, Draco never could. And definitely not with Potter. He huffs, a little indignant, and puts the mug down carefully on the little sidetable next to the couch. He then casts a stasis charm on it, and cautiously removes Potter’s glasses to set them next to the mug. Potter looks so young. And he’s a _dad_. Or at least, that’s what Teddy called him. Salazar, is this what being a godparent is like? He presses his lips together. Well, he’ll just be back tomorrow, then. And not just because it was cosy, not to eat all by himself. Or to have Teddy love his cooking. Although maybe that wasn’t so bad either.

He turns, and apparates home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, for bearing with me. Next up is Harry, and after I have finally laid some foundations, we'll get to the actual romance, shall we? 
> 
> I didn't know I'd ever write "enthusiastic seasoning". But there was no other way to express what I could see Teddy doing.


	13. New friends, old enemies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry confronts Hermione, and Teddy makes new friends. We learn about how the Hermione-Draco friendship came to be about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a short one, and there'll be a sequel to it. I want to write as much as possible, before my thesis-supervisor gets back to me and my attention will be pulled away, again.  
> And I haven't forgotten that Harry and Ron are friends, or Neville. Or mrs. Picklewilly. Bear with me for a little bit, yes?

“I think Malfoy’s up to something” Harry interrupts Hermione’s excited chattering about the nursery. Apparently Ron had cooked up something with George that resembled the Hogwarts Great Hall ceiling, but paint-based. He’d snuck out of their bedroom at night to paint it, and the effect appeared to be rather marvelous. Neat bit of magic, that, actually, and Ron had started the whole project for Hermione, or rather, for their firstborn. She was ecstatic and impressed.  
Ron sat next to her, looking abashed but pleased, the tips of his ears red, a goofy smile on his face. It was a rare Saturday that they had brunch out, and they were at a sunladen park in London.  
Hermione had struck up a friendship with a girl from the bakery, who turned out to not be a girl so much as an Aunt of two little boys, a little younger than Teddy’s age, and they were passing a football on the field. Sanaz was getting them all coffee from a nearby stand. She’d also gotten them some strawberry creampuffs in a bulky Muggle cooler, which Harry was silently eyeing.   
Teddy pulled a face when one of the other boys missed a shot completely. He seemed to be feeling fine today, after a hefty dose of Pepper-Up. He’d only woken once that night, finally not with a bloodcurdling nightmare but with potion-induced nausea. Easily soothed. Harry was still sleeping in Sirius’ room across the hall, but at least he was sleeping. Some.  
Harry missed the exasperated look Hermione and Ron shared, in that way they had, but he heard Ron’s sigh.  
“Mate, you need to let off with Malfoy” he said, rolling his eyes. But Harry looked at Hermione, eyes narrowed.  
“You know something, right?” he pressed. Hermione sniffed.  
“What if I do?”  
“So you _did_ set Malfoy on me!” he accused.  
“I can’t _make_ Draco do anything” she said calmly, and accepted the cup of coffee from Sanaz, who had returned. She sat down, leaned forwards curiously.  
“What are you guys talking about?”  
Harry jumped at the chance for support. “ ’Mione here has given me a babysitter!”.  
Ron snorted. Harry ignored him.  
“I have not!” Hermione defended herself.  
“Why would you need a babysitter?” Sanaz asked curiously. Harry hesitated, then sighed.  
“You know Teddy’s been ill” he confessed. Sanaz nodded.  
“Yeah, Hermione told me. It’s the worst feeling” she said empathetically, and smiled at him. It was a nice, warm smile, without any pity.  
“And Hermione made someone who hates me come into my house, to report back her” He said, not kindly. Hermione sniffed again. Ron looked like he was trying hard not to laugh. Sanaz raised a dark brow at Hermione. “Really?”  
“No! I have a friend who’s concerned. He’s also Teddy’s cousin, incidentally” she smiled at Sanaz, who nodded thoughfully.  
“Well, family can be intrusive. Better just let them.” Sanaz shrugged, as if that settled the matter. Harry snorted.  
“Malfoy’s not family. He hasn’t spoken to Teddy, like, ever!”.  
“Well, the git’s a pompous arse, we know that.” Ron interjected, looking almost fond. Sanaz looked bewildered, and Hermione took pity on her.  
“Draco’s Teddy’s cousin, but their families have been estranged since before Teddy was born. But we’ve known him since we were children, you know”. Hermione didn’t add _how_ they knew Malfoy to be, as children, though. Sanaz nodded again in understanding.  
“Nothing wrong with wanting to make amends, is there?” she said pleasantly, and started unpacking the Muggle cooler. Harry was starting to fume. Why was no one taking his side? It was weird, Malfoy coming by.  
Malfoy was _up to something_ , and it wasn’t ‘making amends’. Harry’d woken up to a hot-chocolate in the middle of the night, and had suspiciously cast all of the Auror detection spells he knew at it. It had turned up clear, however. It was _weird_. He’d chucked it anyway. What a waste. _Git_ , Harry thought, mutinously.  
“He’s not making amends! He’s being _weird_ , bringing over food and cooking and shit!”. Ron was laughing now, and Hermione looked positively delighted at this little nugget of news. Sanaz smiled.  
“Sounds awfully like making amends, Harry. And also like he _cares_.” Harry snorted so hard, his throat ached. Hermione pulled a face “That’s rude, Harry”. Sanaz laughed again.  
“You guys are hilarious”. Ron grinned at her mirthfully.  
“Couldn’t do it without Harry here,” He winked at her. Harry grumbled.  
“Just because _you_ all love him doesn’t mean I have to”. Hermione inclined her head, her curls flying everywhere.  
“No, of course not, Harry. But I trust Draco, you know.” Hermione said, seriously now.  
Sanaz gave Harry his creampuff, and he bit in it rather aggressively. Now even Sanaz was laughing at him. He couldn’t catch a break! Of course he knew Hermione worked with Malfoy, had done so for years at this point. And sure, he didn’t believe Malfoy was truly _evil_ , or else he wouldn’t have testified for him at his trial, let alone allow him around Teddy. He wasn’t a murderer, a willing Death Eater. What he was, was an annoying, spineless _git_ with a superiority complex. And somehow, Hermione had hired him as her _secretary_ , her go-to person for a department that was _her_ brain-child.   
  


He had heard from the Ministry gossip-mill that Hermione had sent the other interviewers away ten minutes after Malfoy’d entered for his interview, and then locked and warded the room. No one exactly knew what had occurred, but take-out had been delivered, nearly a whole night had passed, and they had emerged in the wee hours of the morning, looking red eyed and worse for wear. Malfoy had been hired on the spot, and _Malfoy_ became _Draco_ to Hermione. In the beginning, Ron and Harry had grumbled about their closeness. Then, Malfoy had started coming ‘round to dinner at their apartment, and Ron had started grumbling less. When Harry had pressed him again on Hermione and Malfoy’s closeness, he had shrugged and said “You don’t have to get it, Harry. It’s Hermione’s call.”  
In his eyes had been everything that Harry had wanted to use as a counter argument. How Malfoy had bullied Hermione, called her a Mudblood. How he had tried to get Buckbeak killed. Hagrid fired from his job. How he had let Death Eaters into Hogwarts. Attempted Dumbledore’s murder. How _Hermione_ had been tortured in _his_ house, while he was watching, and didn’t _do_ anything.  
All the awful things Malfoy had done and all the things he should’ve done were in that gaze, and Harry had relented. He had understood something uncomfortable in that moment. Something he didn’t want to remind himself of all that often, and which was before him now, yet again.  
Hermione had grown up, and had become the bigger person. She had had it in her to forgive someone who had done everything in his power to make her life, and that of others like her, impossible. Ron had seen it, and had decided to learn from it.  
But Harry was unable to. Unable to forgive Malfoy for so many things, because when he came home, he had little Teddy, who was crying and had nightmares and hated loud noises for the longest time. Teddy, who was growing up in Grimmauld Place because Death Eaters had killed his parents. Grimmauld Place, which was his because Sirius died at another Death Eater’s hand; Draco’s aunt.  
It hurt too much, and in that moment, Harry had known he was a coward too, and that was unbearable. And perhaps, he realized, now confronted with the Malfoy that came to Neville’s shop, that had the patience for tea with Mrs. Picklewilly (no small feat, that), that came and cooked for Teddy –and him, incidentally- because Teddy’d been ill and he was his cousin, that there might be things about Malfoy that he _didn’t know_. Things that made Hermione trust him, and Ron grin fondly when he said Malfoy was a git. Things that made Malfoy wear fantastical Muggle suits in strange colours to dinner at his mum’s, buy Hermione carrot cake from the bakery, things that made the flowers in the shop _aching_ towards him while he murmured to them.  
Harry ate his cream puff, and the conversation carried on without his input, towards different kinds of Muggle education. Sanaz’s nephews now crowded around them, getting to the food, and Teddy flopped down next to Harry, reaching for a sandwich. Harry put an arm around Teddy’s shoulders, glad for his presence. “You ‘kay there, Ted?” he asked. Teddy nodded, and swallowed a bite. “Yes, dad” he answered, grinning. Harry scrutinized his kid again. _His kid_. The thought made his insides all warm and squirmy, in the best way possible.  
“Hmmm. You might need a nap, Ted.” He murmured, much to Teddy’s displeasure.  
“Dad, come on! I’m not a baby.” Harry ceded, ruffling Teddys curls.  
“We can just relax on the blanket, okay? And I want you to eat all of that sandwich.” He said. Teddy, for once, didn’t argue again, and dutifully resumed chewing. Teddy had vomited a lot in the past week, and while his energy levels were improving with getting a bit more sleep, he still wasn’t eating as much as before. Although he _had_ eaten all of the food Malfoy had cooked for him and put on his plate, even the vegetables, without complaint. Harry wondered if Malfoy was going to show up again. He had been by twice in the past week, both times with food.  
It had been so odd, Malfoy showing up and inviting himself in, that Harry hadn’t known how to react.  
He wondered at his own inability to kick Malfoy out, or close the wards off to him. Perhaps he should do so today, just in case he came back. While he didn’t seem too hostile, he was obviously still an obnoxious arsehole, with the way he manipulated people with flowers. Weirdly, Harry was still selling him those blackmail flowers.  
But he’d also not forgotten what Malfoy’d said about corruption and backhanded deals in the ministry. Had he really closed his eyes to it? Had Marcus been wrong, in saying the Aurors should remain neutral in political reform? He felt uncomfortable even considering it. With all that had happened with Teddy, he hadn’t thought of Marcus that much, but after Malfoy’d left the first time, he’d started thinking.  
Hermione never spoke to him about Ministry matters anymore, since he told her it led to tension between him and Marcus. And while that wasn’t an issue anymore –Harry ignored the little twinge of regret that that thought caused him- he still didn’t really want to think of the Ministry while at the flowershop. But then Malfoy had waltzed in in those suits of his and had mentioned… things. Odd things. Things similar to the little hints of news and gossip Mrs. Picklewilly liked to drop while he tried to swallow the sticky fruitcake she served. And hadn’t Malfoy visited Mrs. Picklewilly too?  
He groaned inwardly. Was this his paranoia speaking again? It really did seem like Malfoy was up to something. But it couldn’t be something nefarious, if Hermione knew of it. And he thought she knew of it. He sighed.  
He looked down at his side when he felt a weight press against him, and saw that Teddy had fallen asleep against him, after all. His irritation melted away into tenderness, and he looked up to see all three of them looking at them. “What?” he said quietly.  
“You’re just lucky” Sanaz answered him, motioning to Teddy. Hermione rested her cheek on Ron’s shoulder, and put a hand on her abdomen. The three of them exchanged a look. It conveyed all the worry for Teddy, but equally, all the love. Harry smiled at Sanaz. The warm squirmy feeling was back.  
“Yeah, I reckon I am” he managed to get out.  
She was right. So what if he was single, quit his job, disappointed everyone. He had Teddy, who called him _dad_ , and that was rather wonderful.  
Sanaz had already turned away from him, but was smiling as she looked at her two nephews, Ahmad and Mehrdad. They were her sister’s children, but her sister and husband were visiting her husband’s family in Germany and thus were staying with Sanaz for the moment, to her obvious delight. Harry thought it healthy that Teddy should make more non-magical friends, and it was strangely convenient that he couldn’t metamorph currently.  
“We’ll best be off, then” he said to them, and gently got Teddy in a vaguely upright position, leaning against him, before stroking his face and nudging him to wake up a little. After stumbling with Teddy to a nearby apparition point, Harry apparated to the little alley next to Grimmauld Place. He’d gotten rather adept at soft landings, even if he still hated feeling the compressed-lung,eyes-popping feeling of apparition. Teddy still stumbled a little, but looked relaxed and dopey-eyed as Harry led them to the square, and up to Grimmauld Place.

In front of which stood an awkward looking Draco Malfoy, grocery bag in hand, frantically muttering to himself.

Harry groaned, and Malfoy turned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, you wonderful people! I hope you liked the little bit of background information, and Sanaz. From here on out, there'll be a LOT more Draco/Harry interaction, and in due course, Draco/Teddy interaction. I'm already squirming for the cuteness, and I hope you are, too!


	14. Fighting over tea and onions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malfoy sits down for some semi-awkard tea with Harry. Neville has some wonderful news to share, which results in the inevitable fight between them. Although, maybe it's not the usual blond git, that is truly the enemy here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you hate the Draco and Hermione friendship or the Draco as godparent idea, this will not be your cup of tea. That's okay. It's in the tags, so don't leave a nasty comment okay? Thank you :) 
> 
> My thesis will rule my life after this, although I still hope to keep to my biweekly upload schedule. As expected, my thesis needs a sound rewrite, and I'll be engrossed in that. I have however, drafted a sort of overarching plot, which is why you can see that there should be 29 Chapters in total, if I can keep to this plot-guide. I hope you're excited about it! I want to add in a little more angst and plot twists, although I must admit I dislike reading/writing angst when I'm experiencing stress in my own personal life. I hope I'm not alone in this!  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this one, as it is significantly longer, and a lot happens. It was necessary however, to move the plot forwards.

He can see the instant Malfoy spots him. He visibly pulls himself together, taking on the sharp, coldly distant appearance he displays to the public. It’s a little unnerving, seeing the two side by side.  
Harry’s good mood vanishes instantly, and in its place comes a steady apprehension. Teddy is still leaning against him, and he briskly moves towards the house, and thus, Malfoy. There goes his plan to ward him out: the git has outdone him, this time. He sighs, but refrains from yelling at Malfoy, who’s staring at them unblinkingly, looking oddly mundane with his grocery bag and rather plain wizarding robes.  
“Hello, Potter” he nods. Ever polite, Harry thinks, and grunts back in greeting, navigating Teddy up the steps, who mumbles incomprehensibly. For a moment, he’s annoyed that Malfoy’s not helping him get Teddy up the steps to the front door, but then remembers Malfoy is already carrying a grocery bag, also ostensibly to help them. This prickles Harry even further as he opens the door and stumbles in with Teddy. Malfoy follows him silently, and puts down the bag on the little spindly legged console table in the hallway, and then, as if he’s somehow known what Harry was thinking, reaches out to hoist Teddy up with him.  
“Let’s get him upstairs, then” he says, pleasantly.  
“Don’t presume I need your help, Malfoy” he bites out in a low voice.  
Malfoy looks at him derisively. “I’d rather neither of us presume anything, Potter”. But they fall silent as they guide Teddy upstairs, and Harry hates that Malfoy knows where Teddy’s bedroom is, that he has such an intimate knowledge of their home already. They navigate him on his bed, underneath his blankets, after Harry has removed his sneakers. It had been a half-hearted fight to get Teddy not to wear his purple buckled wizarding boots. Harry’d won the argument not by stating that they were too obviously wizarding, but by pointing out that if he planned to play in the park, the stains might never come out. Harry thought it an example of prime parenting, that. Teddy had thus put on the white sneakers, which had a foiled swishy sign on them. They were scuffed, and he’d already repeatedly replaced the laces, which were now red on the left shoe, and blue on the other, respectively. Teddy had used markers to colour on the soles, just like he’d scribble on everything else if he got the chance to. He looked up from a weak attempt at tidying to see Draco fuss with the blanket draped over Teddy, an unreadable expression on his face. His eyes seemed to be softer, fractionally. He looked up at Harry, and the effect was gone in an instant, eyebrow raised again .  
“I believe it customary to offer tea to guests, you know”. He mocks, although there’s no heat in it.  
Harry takes a look at Teddy, who seems already fast asleep, and sighs. “Fine, then. Come along” he moves, waits by the door to let Malfoy through first. No matter how many times Hermione says he’s harmless (she says he’s ‘truly a kind person, Harry’, but that description doesn’t bear thinking of), he doesn’t want Malfoy alone with Teddy, asleep.   
Malfoy’s long legs evidently carry him downstairs faster, as he’s already put on the kettle and has started to unpack his groceries, putting fresh produce on the counter by the time Harry gets there. Harry stands in the doorway, watching him for a bit. It is odd, seeing Malfoy occupied with such ordinary tasks as unpacking groceries, or cooking, or tucking in Teddy. There was a quiet efficiency about him. Not because he was fast at what he did, there was no haste involved. Rather, it was that each movement was done with careful deliberation. Harry wondered if it was the product of his etiquette lessons, just like his perfect posture no doubt was. Or rather, perhaps he was just this meticulous, in everything, like the way he picked out the flowers for each of his bouquets. The kettle was whistling, and Harry stepped forward. He hadn’t yet decided how to deal with Malfoy.  
  
His eye dropped to the little glass vase on the table, hosting a long-stemmed green stalk topped with an enormous white flowery head. Allium. A sort of onion, really. Common; Neville sold them for only one sickle at his shop. Usually with purple heads, although this white one looked suspiciously similar to the ones his neighbour three doors down had in their front garden. He frowned.  
“Did you steal this flower from the neighbours?”  
Malfoy turned around from his task, and shrugged.  
“Does it matter?” he asked.  
Harry sighed, it was like fighting with Teddy, this type of petty argument.  
“Jezus Malfoy, you can’t just steal flowers. I was an Auror.” Malfoy smirks.  
“Ex-Aurors can’t arrest flower thiefs, though, I heard” he jests. Harry can feel a smile tug at his lips.  
“Seriously though, don’t start stealing flowers. Neville will go out of business, you arse”. A wonderfully melodious laugh erupts in the air, and Harry is rather startled by it. He looks almost fond, his causal smirk almost a smile now.  
“Good point, Potter”. He admits. He waves his wand, and the kettle stills.  
He has taken out an old Black tea-set, not the chipped and assorted mugs they usually use. It’s one of the nicer ones in Harry’s opinion, although it is less ornate than some of the others. Harry tries not to scoff at the recall: the house had, at some point, held more than five full teasets. Weird crusty old family, the Blacks had been, with teasets for every occasion, apparently. This set was more ‘common’: light pink with golden rims, and a smattering of white gardenia’s to decorate them. Their warming charm was wonky, but the flowery cups lent the tea a hint of sweetness. He got them out whenever Andromeda insisted on having ‘proper tea’ with him. He had no idea how Malfoy had found this set, he must’ve gone through the glassware cabinet in the sitting room next door. Odd.

A perfectly hot steaming cup of tea was put in front of him, Malfoys long bony fingers lingering a little on the saucer, before he too, sat down at the table. Silence fell, but it wasn’t all that uncomfortable, really. The tea helped. It wasn’t as black as Harry usually took it, but it had a hint of fresh lemon in it, and he could appreciate its zest. Malfoy meanwhile, had closed his eyes, and hummed contentedly. Malfoy wasn’t forthcoming with conversation, letting the silence stretch.

Harry cleared his throat. Malfoy’s eyes snapped open.  
“You’re back again, then?”  
“Yes, Potter”. It had all the derisiveness with which old Snape could say ‘o b v i o u s l y’.   
“To cook, again?” he prodded, squirming a little.  
“Yes, Potter.” He answered again, and he looked like he was trying hard not to roll his eyes. He sipped his tea, and put down the cup. A little moisture was caught on his bottom lip, and Harry’s eyes were drawn to it involuntarily.  
“What?” asked Malfoy. “Am I not allowed to have tea before starting dinner, like a common house elf?” he sneers.  
“Christ Malfoy, calm down” Harry says. “Can we have one conversation where we don’t go for eachothers throat?”. He rubs his face. It had been too nice a morning. Of _course_ someone had to come and ruin it, and of course it had to be bloody Malfoy.  
Malfoy sniffed delicately. “Very well. By all means” he said. Harry felt his annoyance rise yet again, but willed himself to stay calm. They couldn’t get into a fight anyway, with Teddy upstairs sleeping.  
“You’re so bloody weird, you know?” he grunts. Malfoy, much to his surprise, looks rather delighted.  
“Are you just going to state the obvious?” he smirks. Malfoy stands up, and starts cleaning his own cup.  
“Hey! I thought we were having a conversation!” Harry exclaims.  
“Well, you can keep on stating the obvious. I thought I might do something useful, meanwhile” Malfoy answers, and starts pulling out a bag of lentils he brought over last week. “Teddy said he wanted curry, and I have no idea how to make it, honestly. Better get a head start, don’t you agree?” he says rather pleasantly. Weird. Malfoy is so weird.  
“So, you’re really cooking for Teddy?” he can’t resist asking, still disbelieving.  
This time Malfoy _does_ roll his eyes.  
“Yes, Potter. What else have I been doing this week?”  
“And it is all out of some sort of Black- reconciliation?”  
Malfoy hums in response, not looking at him.  
“Can I expect it to continue in the near future?” he asks again.  
Malfoy huffs. “I expect so, yes.” A small smirk plays on his lips, Harry can see from his profile as he’s leaning over to get something from a drawer. He sips his tea again, considering.  
Just as Malfoy is starting on chopping onions, there’s a tap on the window.  
They both look up.  
  
“Potter! That’s Mildred!” Malfoy exclaims, but Harry is already moving towards the window to let the little owl in. Attached to her little leg is a scroll, addressed to Teddy and Harry both.  
“Well!? Aren’t you opening it?” Malfoy prods urgently. He’s hovering over him, and smells strongly of raw onions.  
“It isn’t addressed to you, you pillock”. Malfoy rolls his eyes again, all composure forgotten.  
“Give it here!” and he plucks the scroll out of Harry’s hand, and undoes the seal quickly. His eyes zoom over the handwriting, and a wide smile spread over his face, his cheeks flushing instantly. “Haha! They did it! They have a little girl, Marigold” he looks over at Harry in delight, who’s still trying to get at the parchment, dangling from Malfoy’s fingers, far out of reach.  
“Let me see!” and Malfoy finally hands him the paper which read:  
  
“ _Harry, Teddy,  
This morning Hannah gave birth to our little girl, Marigold.  
They are both doing well. We won’t have any visitors over this weekend at least, but I know you’ll want to see our little bundle of joy.  
Look out for an announcement. We’ll floo soon.  
Love, Neville_”  
  
Harry face split in a grin at least as wide as Malfoy’s next to him, who was all aflutter, making more tea. His chest ached. What wonderful news! What he wouldn’t give to be them, in that moment, where everything was new and perfect.  
He looked at Malfoy, who was sniffing again.  
“Eh, Malfoy?” Malfoy turned and looked at him again. “Are you _crying_?” he asked, aghast.  
“No!” came the reply, and Malfoy turned away again. “It’s the onions” he said defensively. “for the curry, you know”. Harry snorted in disbelief.  
“Crying’s fair too, if you were” he teases. It was kind of fun, teasing Malfoy.  
“I’m _not_. It’s the onions” came the terse response. Harry shrugs, and finishes making another pot of tea. He’s still feeling giddy.  
“I can’t wait to tell Teddy, he’ll be thrilled” he laughs. Malfoy turns towards him again, his eyes still watery, an attractive flush spanning his cheeks, over the bridge of his nose. So quickly, Malfoy lost all composure he had. It was a revelation.  
Another owl tapped at the window, this time a post-order one. Upon letting it in, it dropped a letter on Draco’s shoulder, and fled off again, not even accepting a treat Harry hastily grabbed from the little tray by the window.   
Draco quickly rips open the seal, and reads the parchment.  
“It’s the same message. God, I can’t believe he sent you a personal note and not me!” he looks a bit disgruntled. Harry laughs at the jealous tone.  
“I didn’t know you were such good friends, actually”. He sits down to more tea. He’s made it blacker this time, and Malfoy looks at it rather despondently.  
“Well, we are. Neville and I….” Malfoy takes a deep breath. “We came to an understanding even before Hermione and I did” he finishes, looking like someone had just pulled out some of his fingernails. Huh. This was news to Harry. Neville never said, just treated Malfoy cordially whenever he came into the shop.  
“I didn’t know”.   
Malfoy flashes him a wry smile.  
“Again, stating the obvious, Potter. Why should you know?”. Harry shrugs, and sips his tea. Silence falls again.   
  
“I heard Hermione and Ron asked you to be godfather, too” Malfoy says in the silence.  
“Yes, but I haven’t- wait, what do you mean, ‘too’?” Harry frowns, suspicion coiling in his belly.  
Malfoy puts down his teacup again, and gets up to go to the counter. To resume onion cutting, or some sorts.  
“I’m going to be godfather to Ron and Hermione’s child” he says, in his poshest voice. Even with his back turned he now oozes unease, his spine rigid.  
“You” Harry says; it comes out as a squeak.  
Malfoys shoulders droop, just a little. “Yes. Me. Problem?” he asks, and turns around to glower at Harry, chopping knife in hand.  
“Problem? You’re seriously asking if it’s a _problem_?” he scoffs.  
Malfoy starts chopping carrots now, perhaps a little more forcefully than the care he had taken with the onions.  
Harry’s mind was reeling. “I can’t believe they asked you. Knowing they’d ask _me_ , too. _Christ_ ” he exclaims, feeling hysteria rising.  
Malfoy dropped his chopped onions and carrots in a large pot, and a sizzling sound immediately followed.  
“Didn’t know you’d be so fond of Muggle expletives, Potter” he says drily, and takes out a bag of chickpea flower. He rolls up his sleeves in short little tugs, and all of a sudden, his forearms are bare and Harry sees _it_. It fortifies his angry indignation. Malfoy seems too caught up in the dough-making to notice his reaction, after all, his back is turned.  
“That… But, you have the Dark Mark! How can they ask _you_?!”.  
Malfoy whirls around with a hiss, his eyes gleaming.  
“Yes, Potter, how can they ask _me_? Me, the lowest of Death Eater scum, how could they not see it?” he spits at Harry derisively. Harry stands, angry, his magic flaring, cresting against Malfoy’s.  
“You’re not fit to be a godparent, you have _no_ idea what it takes!” Harry yells, now.  
“And you did?!” Malfoy yells back, but he looks like he feels ill as soon as it slips out. Harry instantly deflates, falling back in the chair.  
“I’m sorry, Potter. That was uncalled for” Malfoy says quietly, looking away. His jaw is clenched tightly, and he’s still panting a little. He starts rolling down his sleeves again, but Harry grabs his arm, right above his dark mark.  
“It’s fine, leave it” he grinds out. Malfoy stares at him, face again blank. Harry looks into his eyes, but can’t read what’s swirling in their depths. Somewhere, Harry remembers another fight they had, in a bathroom. He wonders briefly if Malfoy remembers it, too. The blood on the tiles, mixing itself with water like beautiful blooms. The moment stretches, their breathing evening out, their magic turning into something different, now.  
  
The doorbell rings.  
  
They both startle into movement, Malfoy waving him to the door, muttering about making naan. Harry gets up, a little shaken, and walks to the door. He’s not expecting Andromeda for a couple of hours, and she tended to use the floo. Tonight is his first meeting for the single parent support group, and Andromeda was staying over to watch Teddy. He’d even cleaned out a guest bedroom for her, one on the third floor. Not ideal, but it had an ensuite, and the pink patterned wallpaper and frilly curtains were in decent shape, for Grimmauld. He reached the hallway, and quickly waved his wand to check for any traps, or worse, the press. Never could be too careful, these days. When nothing flared, he swung open the door.  
  
“Heya, Harry” said Marcus, standing on his doorsteps, hands in his pockets and looking bashful. His dark brown curly hair was cut neatly, and he was in old fashioned wizarding robes, belted at the waist to show off his trim figure.  
The sight, after so many weeks, was like a punch to the gut. He wouldn’t floocall, he wouldn’t even do him the curtesy of owling, but there he was, standing on his doorstep.  
A spicy scent was wafting in from the kitchen, and it snapped him back to reality.  
“Marcus? What are you doing here?” he asks. Marcus is already taking the last step up, and slips past Harry’s slighter form into the hallway.  
“Well, I see nothing’s changed here, then.” He murmered, smiling a little at Harry. “No time to redecorate, even after quitting?” he asks, winking.  
It used to be a never-ending joke of theirs, the state of Grimmauld Place. Harry would promise to redecorate, but then they’d get a new case, and there just never was enough time. And after each case, they’d come back to Grimmauld, and it was still the state it was in, not the grand family home it could be, but the dusty thing with the shut-rooms.

“What are you doing here, Marcus?”. Marcus turns around, looking as charming as ever. He doesn’t look like he went through a breakup at all. But then, he’d already found a replacement, hadn’t he?  
“Just wanted to see how you are.” He says. Harry crosses his arms. Malfoy’s humming again, and the sound is carrying into the hallway. Marcus tilts his head. “Oh, you’re not alone here?” some sort of rakish smile takes over his face. “Didn’t know you had it in you, Harry” he winks, and it suddenly reminds Harry uncomfortably of Lockhart. He’s not sure whether he’s offended. Perhaps he s _hould_ feel offended. He just feels too tired all of a sudden to feel anything at all. Empty. He sighs.  
“I still have some of your things, Marcus” he says, awkwardly.  
“Hmm, how thoughtful of you.” He answers, although it doesn’t sound all that sincere. He walks further in the hallway, and before Harry can stop him, he steps into the kitchen. Harry inwardly braces himself.  
  
“YOU!” he hears Marcus roar, and Harry forces himself to move. Malfoy might be a bastard, but Marcus is not exactly rational with regards to him, with his prejudice. Even less than he is, really. He doesn’t put it past him to arrest Malfoy. "Shit!" he curses, and arrives at the kitchen to see Malfoy pressed against the sink, both hands up, Dark Mark on unfortunate display. Marcus is close to him, almost nose to nose, wand drawn and pressed against Malfoys long, pale throat. Harry can see his adams apple bobbing as he swallows, but the glint in his eye is defiant.  
“Well, hello Belby.” He sneers, as best he can with a wand forced under his chin.  
Marcus is breathing heavily in Malfoys face. “You death-eating scum!” he spits out, and Malfoy flinches as a little spittle lands on him.  
“Marcus, stop!” Harry yells, and quickly advances on them, pulling Marcus bodily from Malfoy, who gets pushed against the table, which makes a loud screeching noise as the legs scrape against the floor.  
“What is that _thing_ … he doing here?!” Marcus demands, his chest heaving. He looks furious.  
“Oh, I’m not even a person, now, Belby?” Malfoy sneers again, and with all the dignity he can muster, wipes his face with a tea towel. There’s still some flower dusting his collar, but his posture is again rigid, his chin high.  
“He’s… It’s really none of your business”, he answers, catching himself. He doesn’t need to explain himself to Marcus. He’s not the one who left him for someone else, who suggested he quit his job.  
“You’ve taken up with a Death Eater?!” Marcus spits out, looking disgusted.  
“No!” yells Harry.  
“Aquitted Death Eater!” bites out Malfoy.  
Marcus looks between Malfoy, who’s enchanted the dough to keep rolling itself, and Harry, who’s defensively crossed his arms, but for all intents and purposes, has put his body between Malfoy and Marcus.  
  
“Dad?” comes a voice from the doorway. Harry’s heart sinks. Teddy had woken up from the scuffle, and he’s in the doorway, barefeet, clothes rumpled. He needs a pepper-up, badly.  
“Sorry Ted, did we wake you?” he says, gently, although not moving. Teddy nods, and tenses a bit when he sees who else is in the room.  
He’s never shown himself fully as himself to Marcus before, and as he can’t metamorph at the moment, it’s his true form on display. It had been a sore point for Harry, but never something he pressed. He could understand feeling vulnerable, and trust had to be earned. His metamorphing was a defense mechanism, giving him a guise of confidence. He can see Teddy’s hesitation, already thinking of turning around. But Teddy’s also dead curious, and loves to stick his nose –or beak, or snout- in all sorts of business. A nightmare when he was an Auror, as he couldn’t bring files home lest Teddy read some of the grisly details. His amber eyes lock on Marcus, and he clenches his jaw. He looks defiant, kind of like Malfoy.  
“Say, why don’t you go up and take some of that Pepper-Up, and I’ll see you in a minute, ‘kay?” Teddy nods quickly, and with a last look at Malfoy –who smiles encouragingly at him-, he goes upstairs.  
“Is he sick?” Marcus asks in the silence that follows.  
“None of your business, Belby” Malfoy cuts in sharply, before Harry can get in a word.  
Marcus looks annoyed again.  
“I wasn’t asking you, scum.” He bites out.  
“Right,” Harry says. “Marcus, if you want your things, I’ll get them. But you need to wait outside.”  
He looks flabbergasted. “You’re throwing _me_ out, and not him?!”. Harry rubs his face again. He was way too tired for this. Marcus gets up, moves towards Harry, as if to touch him. Harry knows he can’t handle it, he might break if he does. He’s wanted Marcus to come to him for so long, to come and apologize. This didn’t at all go like he dreamt about.  
“You didn’t even come here for Teddy, did you?” he asks, as he steps back.  
“I just asked you if he was sick!” Marcus responds, defensive.  
“The epitome of care, indeed” mutters Malfoy under his breath. That fast, Marcus is on him again, pressing him against the counter.  
“Christ, stop it! Marcus, calm down.” He takes his arm, and drags him to the hallway. Teddy is standing at the top of the stairs, hidden by shadows, but Harry still knows it’s him. Kids were never as sneaky as they thought they were.  
“I’ll send you your things, then” he states again. Marcus sighs, looks pleadingly at him. “I didn’t come here for my stuff, Harry. I don’t even remember what I left here.”  
Harry looks at him, too stunned for a reply.  
“No, don’t look at me like that, I didn’t mean it like _that_ ”. He pleads.  
Malfoy has now entered the hallway, and a snort alerted them to his presence. “Then why does it _sound_ like you did, Belby?” he asks derisively. He’s again the perfect aristocrat, poised and arrogant.  
Harry tries to swallow around the knot in his throat, but fails. He feels rather awful, disappointed and exposed, in his own house.

Malfoy steps forward rather forcefully, pushing Harry to the side and opening the door. “I reckon you need help getting out, Auror”. Marcus looks like he was just made to swallow something slimy, but stepped towards the now open door. “I would say it’s been a pleasure seeing you, but it really hasn’t.” he adds politely. Marcus tries to lash out again, this time using his fist, but Harry grabs his arm, his reflexes still fast. They lock eyes, blue meeting green. “I see how it is” Marcus spits at him. Harry doesn’t trust his voice. Marcus wrenches himself loose, and disappears through the door.  
Malfoy slams it shut with a muttered “Good riddance”.  
  
The silence in the hallway is deafening.  
  
Harry can feel Malfoy looking at him.  
“Teddy” he mutters, and he turns to the stairs, leaving Malfoy in the hallway. He finds Teddy sitting on the top step, leaning against the dark wooden bannister, looking mutinous. He finds the Pepper-up, and gives Teddy a small dose, before they both go downstairs.  
“Why was _he_ here, Harry?” Teddy asks a little angrily. He sounds betrayed. Harry sighs. He doesn’t want to go into it, with his child.  
“Beats me, kid.” He answers, and they enter the kitchen. On the table, next to the flowery bulb rests another two mugs of hot chocolate, steaming. Malfoy’s standing with his back turned, but has turned on the hob again. The kitchen is warm, and the radio has been turned on to a Muggle blues channel, where a female singer is crooning for her lost love. Not what he would’ve pegged Malfoy for, but then again, what would have pegged him for?

“Is grannie coming over soon?” asks Teddy, sipping his hot chocolate like it is the most normal thing in the world. Perhaps it is, given the frequency Malfoy has come by lately. Harry is yet to sip his, even though he knows it’s not poisoned and it smells lovely. Again, Malfoy is being weird, making hot chocolate.   
“Aunt Andromeda is coming over?” Malfoy suddenly says, in response to Teddy’s innocuous question.  
Teddy answers before him. “Dad’s going to a single dad club, so me and grannie have a sleepover!” he states, rather satisfied. He slurps some more hot chocolate.

Harry can practically feel the gleeful look on Malfoy’s face at the words “single dad club”. He groans.  
“Help me paint the picture here, Potter. Is it something dirty?” he smirks.  
“Why would it be dirty?” asks Teddy, all innocent confusion “You better not steal my Slime-Buckets, dad”. Harry groans again. Oh my god, Malfoy is such a bad influence.  
“Shut up, Malfoy. It’s a support group thing, I got a reference from St. Mungo’s” he answers, willing himself not to look more embarrassed than he already does. Man, today can hardly get any worse. Then he remembers, Malfoy doesn’t actually have an accord with Andromeda. As far as he knows, he’s in for yet another awkward meeting. Which would be amusing, but it might hurt Andromeda, too. Better check, actually.  
“Wait, have you talked to Andromeda already?”. Malfoy pulls a face like he’s sucking on a lemon. Harry grins. “Thought so”. He sipped a bit of the hot chocolate. It was strangely nice, hot chocolate in summer. After all, it was still England. Perhaps he shouldn’t have chucked the first one Malfoy’d made, last time.  
  
Teddy had already finished his and was going over to Malfoy to check on his curry making process, fascinated by the stretching dough for naan. He watched them for a moment, interacting naturally. Malfoy talked to Teddy like he was an adult, although without all the sneer and double entendre. Malfoy was lowering the hob to a quiet simmer, and it seemed that at least all the preparatory work was done. A flick of his wand had a timer floating over the simmering pot, set for the hours until dinner. Apparently curry making was a long process. Teddy was excited about it, something he’d only had for take-out, and loved, if it wasn’t spicy. Malfoy was assuring Teddy it wasn’t spicy, since he wasn’t used to it either. It was strangely adorable, and it made him reluctant to ask Malfoy to leave. After all, if Teddy was okay with it, perhaps it wasn’t all that bad.  
“Malfoy, if you don’t want to see Andromeda, I’d suggest leaving before she gets here, in like, half an hour” he said, not unkindly.  
“No! Don’t leave! You need to stay for the sleepover! Grannie always has the best stories” Teddy says, eyes pleading to Malfoy. As if it was Malfoy’s decision, not Harry’s. Malfoy smiles at Teddy, lifts his hand almost as if to rub his head, but halts himself, eyes darting to Harry, as if for permission. Harry feels a bit bad, but not bad enough to do something about it.  
“I’m not opposed to meeting her, if she’s agreeable” Malfoy says rather stiffly, although he winks at Teddy, who’s beaming at him.  
Harry inclines his head. “I’ll go and inform her. It’s her choice, however.” He warns, and leaves the room. He can hear Teddy and Malfoy resuming their animated conversation, and figures he can leave them for a little while, after all. He has much to think of regarding Malfoy, and he feels wrongfooted by all that happened today.  
  


Andromeda is not as surprised as he thinks she ought to have been, at the news that Malfoy is at Grimmauld. She positively smirks when he reluctantly relates how Teddy as asked him to stay for her stories. “Very well, then. I will mind both Teddy and my little nephew,” the Black blood prominent in her tone. “I should like to see what has become of Narcissa’s boy” she grins, dark eyes sparkling and making her look younger, even in the unflattering light of the flames.

And so, as Andromeda steps through the floo, and he witnesses their awfully polite greetings and smalltalk, he’s rather glad to have the excuse to leave for an evening. He knows Andromeda will not let anything happen to Teddy, and by the petulant look on Malfoy’s face, he’s cowed enough by his stern aunt to sneer too much. He’ll no doubt hear all about it from Teddy, when he goes to wake him up in the morning.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this beast! I will try to be a more considerate writer in the future, and hope to make it feel less forced/rushed. 
> 
> *Allium's meaning (as many of onion/leek type of plants) is patience, humility. Malfoy's unsure of his position, and while he's not completely sincere in his intentions towards Harry, he so very much wants to be included in Teddy's life. He just needs a chance, and a little more time. Also, how can there be a dinner table without floral ornamentation? It's uncouth, that's what it is ;)


	15. Whispers in the street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry had a good time at the parent support group. Upon starting work again at Spectral Sprouts, he finds odd rumours are doing the rounds in the street. Luckily, Mrs. Picklewilly is always up for a chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should be re-working my thesis, not writing fanfiction. I know. It's just, my thesis is making me pull my hair out and I want to set it on fire.

He’s just finished up watering the Pond-plant selection, when a couple of witches come in, giggling. Malfoy hadn’t been in, but he had ordered two more arrangements via owl. His eagle owl had looked as haughty as Malfoy, but stayed for pets after delivering the order. The first order, however, had made his hand shake in anger. A bouquet of white columbine, non-magical hellebore, and moping pink larkspurs, their heads drooping because they apparently didn't like the hellebore all that much. He didn't bother coaxing them to stand proudly: they were meant for Reginald fucking Edgecombe, the bastard that had stolen Marcus from him. He deserved moping larkspurs, really. God, the _gall._ Did Malfoy do this on purpose? The note had said ‘ _more ferarum_ ’, and Harry was again ignorant of its meaning. He didn’t want to rope Hermione in to ask about all the Latin, and get a lecture on classical spell-theory, or something. He resolved to find himself a book on the meaning of flowers. At least he could inform himself what horrid meanings must be hidden in them. He was sure Neville had several hidden away in the massive archive cabinet they hardly ever used, and only Hannah knew how to navigate when it came to doing the books. He’d put the rather lovely arrangement aside with a glare, and startled again upon seeing the next name. Blaise Zabini.  
He wasn’t sure if he knew Malfoy and Zabini were still in contact. Did this mean they weren’t friends? Harry shook his head. No, Malfoy had also sent a nice bouquet to a man named Shelly, he’d told him himself. He also gave flowers to his mother, and he was sure he loved her.  
Zabini was a solicitor, and a very good one, apparently. Perhaps not so surprising, giving his mother’s tendency to go through husbands like tissues and end up richer every single time. But why did Malfoy need a solicitor? He took care putting together the purple columbines and glinting, ruby-zinnia. They were rather expensive, and their sparkling leaves were also often used in cosmetics. ‘Just perfect for a posh git like Zabini’, he mumbled, and added their standard coloured card, printed with _‘Amicus certus in re incerta_ ’. Harry frowned. _Amicus_ , he was sure, meant friend. At least these ones weren’t blackmail flowers, then. He couldn’t care less about those for Edgecombe. If he dared, he’d put poison ivy in it, and curse it to spit on his face. Unfortunately, he was certain it would cause Neville to lose his business, and he didn’t want that. After putting aside the last order, Harry leans over the counter in Spectral Sprouts, feeling tired. His eyes follow the pair of witches, barely out of Hogwarts, who are debating between a Witch Basil plant for their flat-share, or a Regrowing-Tomato plant. He might try to convince them to get plugs for both at the price of one full-grown plant. A little more work, but a budget friendly option. He rubs his face, his beard was getting longer.  
He wonders if this was his life now: just always being tired, disappointed, and worried. He drags himself from out of the counter to help the witches, and then vows to make himself a strong cup of tea. No biscuits, of course, as Hannah was still recuperating. Not that he was hungry, after such a food-filled weekend. As he lets it steep, he muses about his time in the Aurors. Of course he was exhausted then, too. While Auroring was different from being a Hit-Wizard, there was still a fair amount of dueling and running down criminals involved, especially in the Dark Arts Crime department, of which he and Marcus had been part. At the same time, it had been exciting, and the hands-on approach had been satisfying. Yes, paperwork afterwards had been a drag, as had been investigations that didn’t seem to move forward. He’d never been all that patient, even if he’d gotten better at it taking care of Teddy.  
At the same time, the excitement of the Aurors was in part also due to the romantic attachment he’d had with his partner. The adrenaline rush after a raid was excellent fuel for explosive chemistry, which made him feel dunk on the excitement, on being with Marcus. Then, after the excitement calmed down, he felt guilty for leaving Teddy for days at a time at Andromeda’s, when he knew he couldn’t be home. Moreover, Teddy wasn’t his exuberant naughty self around Marcus, making Harry choose between his child and his lover, and well, there was only one answer there, wasn’t there? Still, despite what an arsehole he seemed to be now –and Harry refused to believe he’d hated Harry that much, now, it _had_ been exciting, and reaffirming. He’d lived for the compliments Marcus gave him at work, making him feel validated, important. He’d made him feel like he made a difference with his work, and that that was enough. No pesky politics like Hermione tried to drag him into; just him and his wand, his gut instincts, and his partner. Nothing too complicated, but still thrilling. Marcus showed his care for Harry in making sure his Auror uniform was neat, in brushing through Harry’s hair in order to tame it a bit. He’d also taken over a lot of the paperwork, knowing Harry hated it, and joked about Harry’s chicken scrawl making it ‘illegible anyway’. Sure, Harry’d regretted that Marcus never really stayed over, but that was better for Teddy. Marcus had understood, agreeing immediately, and aside from basic toiletries and a spare change of robes, never left personal items at Harry’s, never made to move in more. It had seemed respectful at the time, but Harry still thought he would’ve liked him to protest more. To make more of an effort. He frowned in his tea. It was exactly as Marcus had said this Saturday: he hadn’t even remembered what he’d left at Harry’s, like it hadn’t mattered at all. That had stung, a lot. A movement behind the shop windows draws his eye, pulling him out of his depressing musings, and he sees Mrs. Picklewilly waving at him. He dregs up a smile, and she gestures that he needs to come over for his lunch break. He nods aquiescence, and she leaves, looking satisfied. After he’s helped an elderly wizard pick a lovely bouquet of peonies for his wife, he closes shop for lunch and steps into _Pot, Kettle, Pickle_. The streets seem a bit disquieted, a low rumble of gossip is steadily making its way through the crowds. Harry frowns. He wasn’t pelted with hatemail or press this morning, so it can’t be about him, can it? He steps into the cramped shop of Mrs. Picklewilly, and feels a little curl of anticipation. Mrs. Picklewilly always has the freshest gossip, and the sharpest take on it. He never really knows if she’s joking or not, but she’s so utterly unimpressed by him and gossip about him, he finds he doesn’t really care. That, and she usually feeds him, which is alright in his book.  
He never cares to make his own lunch, or dinner even. He really only makes an effort for Teddy, and Teddy often doesn’t mind cereal for breakfast and dinner. Plus, Teddy’s also too young to comment on Harry picking at his food while he eats himself. He sighs, and rubs his stomach. He knows he’s lost weight in the last months, and suspects it would be worse if Hermione hadn’t dragged him off for cake all the time. And then Malfoy, all of a sudden, dropping by and cooking. He even had the audacity to prepare meals and stick them in the fridge. Every morning, while taking out the milk for Teddy, he was faced with neat little rows of Tupperware boxes, labeled in precise, cramped handwriting. ‘ _Chicken casserole: heat in oven for 20 minutes on 160_ ’ said one, and ‘ _Peanut stew: heat up on stove_ ’, and to Teddy’s delight, a tub with ‘ _cinnamon rice pudding: hot or cold_ ’. Somehow they got through most of it before the man came again, days later, to do the same thing all over again. And somehow, Harry still wasn’t protesting. He shook his head. It was probably because of Teddy, and because he still couldn’t shake the lingering apathy that had overtaken him a few months ago, after the intial hurt had sliced through him and he just shut down. Things hurt less now.  
And if he couldn’t really care about messes and spills and groceries, it was probably still fine, as long as Teddy was fine. That was the priority. And Teddy _would_ be fine, with the potions and the Mind Healer and Malfoy’s food. It was actually rather nice, having the security of knowing Teddy was cared for. It wasn’t that he was useless, really. Just, he wasn’t good at some parts of parenthood. Which was why he had signed up for the support group Healer Lindsay had recommended him, he reassured himself.  
The support group was based in Islington, hosted in a small community center by a witch named Norma Harris. He’d felt comfortably insignificant sitting at the formica tables and drinking machine coffee. He’d been just one of the single parents there, and while some parents had obviously recognized him, the groups confidentiality was warded with a very simple loyalty spell. It was that that had made him stay, actually. That, and Healer Lindsay, or rather, Rowan, who’d smiled had him when he’d spotted Harry. He’d been unintrusive, but obviously comfortable in the group. Harry was surprised by his openness, which was emphasized by his being out of uniform and in soft, casual muggle wear. Harry knew he wouldn’t mind to befriend the man. It was also obvious he was a good father, which made Harry both envious and interested. 

“Ah, Harry dear, there you are.” Came Mrs. PIcklewilly’s voice. Harry pulls his thoughts away from his musings on parenting and focuses on the elderly witch who was bustling in with a tray of rattling teacups.  
“Would you like some help, Mrs. Picklewilly?” he asks politely, seeing as she was now perching it precariously on one of her overfull spindly legged tables. The cups rattled alarmingly as she bumped the tray.  
“Ah, no dear, dear old Dick charmed the tray to balance perfectly. His charms still hold.” She says with a satisfying smile. “Now, eat a sandwich, dear. You look dead on your feet”, she orders him. He obediently picks up a tuna-mayo sandwhich, which has an inordinant amount of pickled onion in it. It is rather nice, actually, and he says so. “Of course it is dear, I made these myself”. She huffs, as if he was accusing her of not making her own pickled goods to sell. She waits until he’s at least halfway through his second sandwich to ask him, “How are you really, then, dearie?”. Her tone is inquiring, but much less sharp.  
“Teddy’s going to be fine. We’re going for a checkup later this week.” Mrs. Picklewilly’s sharp eyes hold his for a bit, and she sips from her dainty china.  
“I am very glad to hear it, of course,” she says, giving him a smile. Then she does something she’s never done, and leans forward to pat his arm, squeezing it. “But that’s not what I asked”. Harry squirms in his chintzy chair. He _really_ doesn’t want to snap at Mrs. Picklewilly. She’s nice, and it is not like she knows he’s already being harangued by Hermione, the entire Weasley family (George had actally walked into Spectral Sprouts this morning to ostensibly get a flower for Angelina, which was an obvious lie by the way he kept hovering), Andromeda, and _Malfoy_ , of all people. At this point he was glad Neville and Hannah were preoccupied so he didn’t have them worrying over him, too. Really, it wasn’t like he looked _that bad._ He’d had Auror raids gone wrong and been laid up in Mungo’s, so insomnia and a little malnourishment were nothing to worry about. And he wasn’t _that_ skinny. His clothes still fit him.  
He finds himself telling her about the single parent support group, and Healer Lindsay. He feels her eyes on him, but he carefully skirts the whole Malfoy debacle. He knows she has tea with him as well, and he’s not up for discussing the weirdness that is Malfoy at his house, cooking up a storm and telling Teddy fairytales about constellations. She nods and ‘hmms’ at appropriate intervals, and she seems very interested in who he’s met at his support group, and he belatedly realizes she wanted him to ‘find a good husband to settle down with’. He stops abruptly, and tries to scramble for a new topic. His eyes land on the stack of newspapers next to her till.   
“What is the fuss on the street about, then?” he asks. Mrs. Picklewilly looks like she’s swallowed something unpleasant. Something not pickled, perhaps.  
“Nasty rumours are going around” she says, indignation creeping in her tone. Harry raises a bushy eyebrow. “And before you ask, they’re not about you, dear”. She interrupts his asking. Well, that’s a relief then. He breathes out. It seemed however something that affected Mrs. Picklewilly personally, if she was so unamused by such a salacious topic as was spreading like Fiendfyre. He waited, eating another little praline that she’d brought out before. It was quite the spread today, and he wondered if she’d been planning this little lunch. He was a little irritated at having another person in his life fussing with him, but he was also a little charmed. It was rather surprising that this little old lady had such seemingly genuine concern for his life, enough to do so. With a huff, he thought it was rather like Malfoy, just forcing his ‘care’ on him, without his consent really, and with strange motives, and he wasn’t able to refuse properly. Unlike with Malfoy however, he thought Mrs. Picklewilly had no ulterior motives than just stuffing him with more food and satisfying her need for company and gossip. Mrs. Picklewilly takes another sip, then almost bangs down her cup on the saucer, and it winces.  
“Lucius Malfoy has filed for retrial, apparently”. She states, voice serious. Harry tries very hard not to spill his tea, and fails.  
“What?!” he splutters out. Mrs. Picklewilly gives him a rueful smile and hands him a frilly lace handkerchief, which he gratefully accepts to mop up the tea.  
“Yes, my thoughts exactly.” She nods.  
“Is it true?” he asks. He feels like he should’ve known. He wasn’t an Auror anymore, but wouldn’t he be contacted should the case be brought to trial again, as he had been a key witness the first time? He didn’t think he’d fallen out of grace with the Ministry _that_ much.   
“I’m afraid it is, dear. I heard it from Narcissa herself.” She adds, looking at him shrewdly, as if to gauge his reaction. Harry feels his eyes widen. “You know Narcissa Malfoy?” he asks incredulously.  
“Why yes, dear. We went to Hogwarts together.” She answers matter of factly. “We’ve been in correspondence” she waves her hand, and a new cup of tea is poured for Harry. He’s unsure what to think. Harmless gossip Mrs. Picklewilly, friends with Narcissa Malfoy? His mind leaps at all possible conspiracies, and he forcefully halts himself. Of all the Malfoys, Narcissa seemed the most trustworthy. Then again, she was one of the Black sisters, which wasn’t necessarily a reassurance.  
“And, ehm, what do you correspond about, exactly?” he ventures hesitantly. Mrs. Picklewilly gives him a little smile, which looks entirely too sharp in her face.  
“Oh, this and that. Not important dear.” She settles a bit more comfortably in the chair, and continues “I can tell you she’s not all that happy with old Lucius, you know.” Harry’s mind was reeling. This was private information! He sincerely hoped she didn’t divulge his secrets so easily, but then again, he’d never heard a whisper of this before, so perhaps she _could_ keep secrets.  
“Hm, no. She rather likes being her own woman, you see. She’s made a name for herself, after Lucius was locked away”. Harry nods. Narcissa was associated with many charities, and known for not being afraid to get her hands stuck in as well. Good for her, he’d thought, when he heard that she had opened the manor after the war to act as interim foster-home. ‘after extensive renovation, of course’, she had assured the press in an inverview. He briefly wondered about Malfoy.  
Malfoy had inherited most of the Malfoy fortune and assets after his father had been locked away, due to his being the only legal heir. He wondered what this meant, Lucius’ appeal. What did Malfoy stand to lose? Then another thought popped into his head.   
“Does this have to do with the new Traditional Wizarding Value lobby?” he asks. He’s thinking of Hermione, and how often she’d complained about the conservative faction and their allies, and how they were gaining ground in the department of Justice. Mrs. Picklewilly smiles at him, looking pleased.  
“Oh, how clever you are, dear. I suspect it does.” Harry wracks his brain.  
“But, I don’t understand how, then? He was put away for murder, pureblood supremacy, crimes against wizardkind, all those things. Where’s the miscarriage of justice there!?”. Mrs. Picklewilly purses her lips, making her skin wrinkle.  
“Yes, it is rather creative. His appeal is to the legality of pureblood supremacy at the time of his crimes.” She adds conversationally. Harry stares at her. He doesn’t really know what to say. “And as it was a collective charge, if they want to retrial on grounds of only a part of the accusation, they’ll have to retrial the whole thing, starting with reinstating him as Lord Malfoy, the accused.” Oh _shit_. That was why Malfoy was sending flowers to Zabini. He was Lord Malfoy, currently.  
“But, how would Lucius know to do this?” he asks, incredulous. Lucius had been in Azkaban for years now. He should be half mad, not up to making cunning plans at all.  
Mrs. Picklewilly frowns again, and looks contemplative. “Yes, that is the question, isn’t it, dear?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Da dum! More plot, there you go! 
> 
> Flower meanings:  
> Reginald Edgecombe  
> More ferarum: the mores of a beast; sex in the manner of beasts (I think we can all figure what that is pointing towards)  
> Columbine (white): folly  
> Hellebore: scandal  
> Larkspur: fickleness
> 
> Blaise Zabini  
> Amicus certus in re incerta: a sure friend in uncertain times.  
> Columbine (purple): resolved to win  
> Zinnia (scarlet): constancy
> 
> Also, should I post the source of my floristry study?


	16. Hate mail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The news about his fathers retrial is spreading, and Draco finds that it follows him to work.  
> His secretkeeping and attempts to distance himself from his past might even make him lose a friend.  
> Do things really have to get this bad, before they get better? Will it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm overdue, and I know it! So, my rewritten draft for my thesis was rejected, and I have to tweak it AGAIN. Hopefully it'll be accepted then. Apparently I don't write 'aggressively' enough. Sure, I generally want my argument to sneak up on you, and not charge ahead like a bull. Well, f that, and here is a chapter full of hate and tension.

“Get up”. His own voice is hallow, bouncing flatly against the wallpaper.  
Draco stares at his painted ceiling. He’s lying on his bed, fully dressed, and can see at the slant of the light cutting through the windows that if he doesn’t get a move on, he’ll be late.  
The news broke yesterday. He’d had a warning from Blaise, who had access to the Wizengamot rumour mill as well as personal connections to some human guards at Azkaban. What he hadn’t prepared for, was the sheer amount of outward _hatred_ he had to face after leaving the Ministry yesterday. His day had been going _so_ well, too. He’d had more flowers delivered, held off Hermione from eating too many sweets, and he’d had good reports from their Squib-Squad (which he wasn’t allowed to call their Inter Magi-Muggle network, but he did, anyway. There wasn’t anything wrong with being a Squib, after all). He had just made plans for a surprise for Teddy, who he was getting surprisingly fond of. He’d figured that even if Potter was a hopeless case –which it was starting to look like, whatever Mrs. Picklewilly said, Potter wasn’t open to any type of advances, it seemed- he liked cooking with his cousin, who had such an outrageously wonderful imagination. He liked being asked questions, about the cooking, about his clothes, about the paleness of his hair. He loved Teddy’s enthusiasm, his funny little intermissions.   
It made him wistful, to see one of his family members being allowed to be himself, coloured hair and all. He was secretly impressed by how Potter allowed all of it: the multicoloured walls, the mismatched socks, the jokes. Draco had _never_ been allowed. The house had to remain pristine, the walls of his bedroom a sedate cream with gold gilding, a terrifying state of cleanliness that had made him learn to mind every single step, every single fingerprint. The most wondrous thing, and the only concession his mother had made, was the painted, glowing, constellation ceiling. The very same as what he was staring at now, actually.   
His little apartment, which he had moved into as soon as he’d started working for Hermione, had been the first time he’d been able to create his own space. Something comfortable, filled with things important to him. He’d spent the Christmas holidays after starting his job painting this ceiling, dressed in his first gaudy Christmas sweater from a muggle charity shop, accompanied by a grumbling Pansy who didn’t see why they had to do it the muggle way, if he could just spell it to a perfect replica of the night-sky. Draco, dark blue paint in his hair, had grinned like a madman and had the best of time being able to feel on a physical level that he was making it _his_ space. And so the ceiling had been painted by hand, painstakingly, to resemble the traditional Black night sky ceilings, and charmed to sparkle at night. The walls he’d wallpapered with forest-printed wallpaper, and he loved how free he felt in his little magical wonderland. While meticulously tidy, it was nothing like the rooms in the manor, whimsical instead of stark, colourful and cosy.   
His owl Brighid was, as ever, perched on a real wooden branch -which included an adjacent nest- he’d installed in the corner. She was a terrible cuddler, and he couldn’t deny her anything. She’d been the smallest owlet in the Malfoy owlery, and instead of drowning her like he was supposed to, he’d snuck her inside the manor the summer holiday of his fifth year, and raised her, sneaking food from the house elves. She’d been attached to him ever since, even through the war she’d remained loyal. She was staring at him dolefully, perched on her branch, as if she knew of his inner turmoil. She probably did. His eyes moved to the ceiling again, and he started to feel a bit angry.  
He’d lose this apartment too, if he lost his title, since it was purchased using the family vaults. He stupidly hadn’t thought to get his own vault, since it seemed superfluous at the time. As if he _wanted_ to be ‘Lord’ Malfoy, for crying out loud. He just wanted to keep his nice apartment, his own salary, his own choices, and _not_ be spat on when leaving the ministry, _thanks ever so fucking kindly_. He grumbled. He really needed to go. He couldn’t show weakness to the haters, couldn’t let the conservative sharks smell his distress.  
“Get up” he says to himself. Brighid hoots at him. His job wasn’t about him, really. It was about doing _better_ , for other people to have a better chance. For the fucking war not to kill them all in other ways, even after it ended.  
“Get up” he presses, a little louder. He squeezes his eyes closed one last time, and mutters again. “Get the _fuck_ up, Draco”. He swings his legs around the bed, and gets up.  
He is Draco _fucking_ Malfoy and he has _things to do_. 

He straightens his black robes, the row of silver buttons gleaming in a severe line from his waist to his chin. The shoulders are a bit broader, a bit pointier than his own, like wingtips. The lines cut sharply, deadly. The robes made him look every inch his namesake, and he knows it. If they wanted him to be a _draconis_ , they’d better be prepared to get burned.  
He wasn’t yet ready to give up. He hadn’t given up when he was living under Voldemort, suffered through the fall of his family’s name, and this trick of his father was just another little cherry on top of the shit-cake that was post-war Malfoy life. He could deal. He mentally tallied the list of things he needed to do, and took a deep breath. He straightened his spine, looked himself in the eye, and apparated to the Ministry apparition point.  
It was go-time. 

The Ministry was all aflutter with rumours, but he strode through the hallways with his chin tilted up, a little sneer on his face. ‘Let them talk’, he thought. He forced himself to walk slowly, with dignity, and not _flee_ to his little office in his department. Madam Beauregard nodded at him steadily seeing him arrive, and gave him one of her little smiles. “Good morning, Lord Malfoy” she said, addressing him by his title for the first time. He gave her a sharp smile. “Good morning, Madam Beauregard.” And he knew he had her support, from that alone. She lifted her wand casually, and all the papers on everyone’s desk –each one headlined with “Little Lord to Lose all to Death-Eater Father” were lifted in the air, and burned with a little puff. “No time for gossip, today, do we?” she said a gleam in her eye. He inclined his head, and walked to Hermione’s office. She’d have heard, of course. They needed to discuss damage control. Not for him, no, he wouldn’t involve her in this. But to their cause.  
He opened her door after a knock, and stepping inside found himself suddenly full of an arm of bushy haired female. “Oh Draco! How awful!” she declares, and squeezes him tightly.  
“Don’t be ridiculous Granger. I know our bill still needs some fine-tuning, but it’ll get there.” He jokes, feeling inordinately pleased at her frustrated little slam against his chest, and she moves away a little.  
“You ridiculous prat, it’s _not_ funny!” she sniffs, rubbing at her eyes roughly. “These stupid hormones make me cry at everything” She exclaims, frustrated. Draco squeezes her shoulder. “Do you need some carrot cake?” he tries, with a little smile.  
Hermione laughs again, wryly. “I’ve gone off it, didn’t you know? It’s pickles with mayonnaise now, I have jars in the icebox over there” she rolls her eyes. Draco pulls a disgusted face.  
“That’s horrific, Granger. Promise not to eat it in front of me, I beg of you.” She grins unrepentantly. “It’s Hermione, Draco. Sit down, we need to have a chat.” He raises an eyebrow. “A chat without tea? How crude”. Hermione rolls her eyes, but waves her hand. Draco takes it as his cue, and heads out to make some tea. It gives him some time to gather his thoughts, at least. ‘ _Draconis’_ , he reminds himself. 

Tea made, they settle down, the door closed. Hermione’s brown eyes peer at him, sharply. Draco rolls his eyes. “Don’t worry about me, nothing’s happened yet” he says. Hermione presses her lips together, and eyes him over critically. He straightens beneath her scrutiny.“Madam Beauregard came to talk to me this morning. ” she starts, voice serious. Draco crosses his legs, feigns nonchalance, and raises an eyebrow. “It will influence our bill, if your father is reinstated, Draco. He’ll regain his seat in the Wizengamot, for the duration of his trial”.  
“But-” Draco starts, but he’s interrupted  
“During the trial, he’s allowed to exercise all of his rights as a true Lord in the Wizengamot.” She finishes, voice small. Draco swallows audibly.  
“Bloody hell” he chokes out. He hadn’t even thought of that. Their bill was due in a month. The retrial would span _at least_ that, if not more. And if Draco couldn’t vote in the Wizengamot, including Potter never voting –despite holding the Black _and_ Potter seats-, their majority was extremely uncertain. Moreover, he wouldn’t be able to have access to the other Wizengamot members, not without lengthy administrative processes. “Salazar” he manages to say. Hermione reaches over to take his hand, and he squeezes it.  
“We need Harry to vote, too, now” Hermione whispers. Draco purses his lips.  
“Potter doesn’t want to get involved, you said, before” he probes.  
“We’ll _have_ to make him listen. This is too important, it’s just- ” she clenches her shoulders together. Draco cocks his head. He’s unsure whether to include her into what he knows of Edgecombe. Judging by the disastrous conversation he had witnessed between Potter and Belby, there’s not a chance of them getting back together, but obviously Potter wasn’t over him. At least not so much that he wouldn’t be hurt by more news and rumours involving his former lover. It was one thing to be left for someone else, but quite another to be left for a real piece of scum, and still deemed lacking. He decides against it. He’s not sure how to use the piece of information yet, and is sure that without it, Hermione will prevent him from disclosing it, _ever_.  
“You’re planning to speak to him, then?” he asks. Hermione sighs.  
“I think I might even involve Ron” she smirks a little. It’s a good look on her, Draco thinks. Very clever and devious. An idea pops into his head.  
“Do you happen to know Mrs. Picklewilly?” he asks her. Hermione looks confused.  
“The shop-owner across the street from Neville? The pickle-shop woman?” she looks slightly bewildered. Draco nods. “What does she have to do with our bill?” Draco leans forward.  
“She can be very convincing, in my experience.” Hermione frowns. “Mrs. Picklewilly happens to have lunch and tea with Potter, regularly. She talked him into actually going to the single parent club, when he spoke to her about it. She told me herself she did”. Hermione frowns at him.  
“You talk about Harry with other people?”  
“She’s trustworthy, if that’s what you’re asking” he says a bit tersely. “And no, I don’t make it a habit to concern myself overly with Potter.” He scoffs.  
“Hmmm. Well, if you’re sure…” she says.  
And so they decide that Mrs. Picklewilly will start plying Potter first, and Hermione and Weasley would have him over for dinner a few days after that, so the information could have had time to set. According to Hermione “Harry needs to reach that conclusion on his own, or he won’t do it”. Stubborn prat, Potter is.   
Their tea is nearly cold at this point, and Hermione starts nibbling on some cucumber sticks she takes out of a plastic container. They tick off a few more items on their list –Hermione will go for the form fitting dress robes, after all-, and they make a plan on how to ply some more neutral Wizengamot members –Draco has already a list of flowers and little attentions planned-, and Hermione brings up the last syllabus modification.  
“Felix finished the latest draft on the _Magical Education for Non-Magical Peoples_ series, and we need it tested.” She says, finally. Draco nods.  
“If you have no objections, I can hire Lawrence again as a specialist consultant, like we did last time?” he proposes. Lawrence could use the payment, and it would give them an unbiased opinion on the role of the House system. Sure, Lawrence knew of the Houses, but Draco had been careful not to speak too much of Hogwarts to him, feeling a little bad for the young man he liked so much. Hogwarts was such a wondrous, integral part of being a Wizard, he didn’t want to make him jealous. A bit presumptuous, he thought, on reflection, but still. He’ll text Lawrence later, ask if he can come by for dinner. Get some healthy food in him, too. They finish up their meeting, and he seats himself in his office.

It doesn’t take long for the daily influx of mail starts to arrive. He files away some interdepartmental memo’s, but frowns as the little pile of non-standard sized mail starts to add up. A sense of dread fills him. He had warded his apartment against anonymous mail, including a filter for curses and spells –not a superfluous concern, it had turned out-. While the ministry held off all influx of anything truly dark, it didn’t block malintended letters; after all, complaints were necessary to the proper functioning of many a department. Draco steels himself, and reaches for the first one. He halts when he feels the prickling of magic at his fingertips, and takes out his wand. He settles down to checking each and every one of them.  
The prickling turned out to be a stinging hex. By the time lunch rolls around, he’s disabled three stinging hexes, two knee-reversal spells, a tarantallegra, and a very nasty itching powder, which he’d nearly gotten all over himself. Meanwhile, every half hour or so, more would come in. “This is ridiculous!” he mutters. He couldn’t waste his whole day dealing with mail! He gets up, fixes his hair, and goes up to the department of Mail and Communication.  
The wizard at the front desk eyes him, while letters and owls are chaotically fluttering about at the back. Merlin, this whole department seems so _messy_. To be expected, of course, as it was a cross between an owlery, magical mail center, and publishing house. Other magical mail was already cluttering about his person, hovering around him, waiting for him to open them. It was really getting out of hand, and the preliminary proceedings were still days away!  
“Mailwizard Fawcett, good day”. He starts. The wizard looks at him with suspicion. “What do you want, Malfoy?”. _Ah,_ it was that kind of conversation, then.  
“I am being kept from my work by the an influx of personal mail, it would seem.” He says, trying to be pleasant. More mail was starting to flutter about his face, and he felt it approaching his perfectly coiffed hair. He pushed down the impulse to set it all on fire.  
“You’re not supposed to direct personal mail to the Ministry, Malfoy,” Mailwizard Fawcett said, pretending nothing was amiss, while more Mail was starting to cling to Malfoy’s aura. Draco clenched his jaw.  
“It is not my private correspondence.” He responded. He batted away a letter with his hand.As soon as his hand touched the letter, he knew he’d made a grave mistake. It exploded with a few sparks, and aside from spilling a sort of nauseating gas, it started shouting:  
 _''You disgusting little Death-Eater! How dare you try and get your father out of jail! You should be there keeping him company, not sullying our society with your evil! I hope you know what is coming for you!  
As soon as find an envelope that can hold the curse, your line will cease to exist!”. _Draco blinks at it as it blows up and vanishes. The Mailwizard looks positively delighted at the little display. Draco turns a raised eyebrow to him, displaying an unaffected manner.  
“It seems to be _hatemail_ , Mailwizard Fawcett,” he adds drily. The wizard eyes the other fluttering mail a little hungrily.  
“Well, it wouldn’t _do_ to ignore civilian concerns as a Ministry worker, Malfoy” the Mailwizard replies nastily. Draco suppresses a sigh, starting to feel a bit nauseated because of the smelly gas.  
“I assure you, I am not. However, in my department there is no need for mail that includes curses, hexes, or howlers!”. He grits out. The Mailwizard calmly studies an owl that comes in. Draco tries not to combust from impatience.  
“But how will concerned citizens contact your department?” the Mailwizard questions, full of faux concern.  
“They can query via the normal channels. I request you redirect mail addressed to me to our query box.” he answers sharply. “Please.” He adds, through his teeth.  
“Well, you can fill out this form here with a formal request. Takes up to two weeks to process, standard procedure.” He was handed a multi-page form, full of tiny writing. He took it reluctantly.  
“Is there any way to expedite the process?” he asks apprehensively.  
“See! This is why you deserve this mail! Already trying to buy your way out of it!” the Mailwizard growls at him. Draco takes a step back, lest the spittle hit him in the face. Which would add nicely to the pile of mail about his person, of course. This day was _doomed_. He sighs.  
“Not at all my intention, Mailwizard Fawcett. I’ll take my leave.” He bows a little, and leaves, taking with him the forms.  
He’d just have to figure out a way to keep the mail out of his office, then. It couldn’t follow him home, at least. He felt his shoulders droop, the weight of the hatemail quite literally weighing him down. He didn’t have time for this nonsense, and he didn’t want to think about the trial any more than he had to. It wasn’t like he _asked_ for this to happen! He was quite happy his father was out of his life, but alive. He didn’t feel too guilty for being relieved. His mother seemed quite happy by herself in the Manor, with her charities and causes, and subsequent acceptance into the better circles of Wizarding society. While she did visit father every few months –whenever granted a visit-, these visits seemed to sadden her more than anything else. It wasn’t something they could discuss, of course. That was not the way of the traditional wizard.  
It was getting disorienting, the amount of mail that was fluttering about. He could go to the Aurors, of course. If he weren't Draco _Malfoy_ , that was. He could vividly imagine the gleeful faces at the DMLE when he came in, letters full of hexes and curses flying about him, begging for help. Oh, how they would just _love_ to lord it over him. Not even mentioning, Belby could be there. He was getting a serious headache at this point. He returned to his own department stiffly, hurriedly going to his little office, ignoring the questioning looks from those working at their desks. He was sure he made quite the spectacle, but he didn’t want to ask for any more help. He would deal with it.   
He locked himself in his office, and set to work. By the end of the day, his robes were ruined, singed in places, his hair was a mess, and he had several scores on his skin where paper had literally attacked him; paper cuts were petty, and they definitely _hurt_. He’d have to heal those later. Finally, he’d managed to set up similar wards on his office as to his apartment. Unfortunately, it would keep out interdepartmental mail as well, redirecting it to Madam Beauregard first. He was sure she wouldn’t mind. After all, she was a formidable Witch in her own right, and clearly supported him. She no doubt knew how to deal with petty mail curses, being an attorney.  
Exhausted, he hurried his way home. At least he could have a nice dinner with Lawrence, and hire him to test their new syllabus.   
  
He apparated to his kitchen to find Lawrence already there, looking agitated. “There you are!” he exclaims impatiently, and he waves today’s issue of the Prophet in his face. _Oh no_.  
“Good to see you, Lawrence. You got my text, then?”. He says, a little apprehensive. He starts tugging at his ruined robes. He wants to get out of them, as soon as possible. He feels a little too vulnerable, and he didn’t underestimate Lawrence in a temper, despite his being a Squib.  
“Yes, your little Squib pawn, ready for action’’ he spits out, and Draco winces.  
“I just wanted to have dinner with you, Lawrence” he says more calmly than he feels. He’s taken off his outer robes, is now in only a thin, uncollared black shirt and what to muggles constituted leggings –traditional wizarding wear, of course- and while more comfortable, he feels too exposed. His summer underclothes are, after all, exceedingly thin and airy.  
“Really? And you have no ulterior motives to dinner with me?! I find that hard to believe, after reading _this_!” he thrusts the paper in Draco’s face again. Draco hadn’t read it, hadn’t wanted to, and his old cowardly self hadn’t even dared, to be frank. He takes it, tries to still his trembling hand. He had been humiliated, hexed, hurt, and laughed at today. He didn’t want to add losing a friend to the list. So he took it, and read it briefly, while Lawrence stood in front of him, ready for a fight.  
“Little Lord to Lose all to Death-Eater Father” It started, on the front page. He skips the parts about his father’s actions, already knowing what he was convicted for, all the crimes he committed. He had been there for most of it, after all, and had been present too, in court. He quickly finds his own name, just below the fold. Thank Salazar for small mercies, at least.  
 _“….his son, Lord Draco Malfoy, is currently working at the Ministry of Magic, at the Wizarding Education, Information and Reformation Department (W.E.I.R.D), and has not yet commented on the news of his father’s appeal. While he stands to lose his Lordship and seat in the Wizengamot, we wonder whether it is not his intention to reinstate his own father in a position of power. After all, the Malfoy family has used all means at their disposal to regain influence in Wizarding politics throughout the centuries, including but not limited to illegal monetary support, blackmail, and the Imperius curse. Draco Malfoy, who was acquitted at his trial due to being underage, was nevertheless found guilty of many heinous crimes. Accusations at his trial included: the use of the Cruciatus curse on half-blood wizards, squibs, and muggles, accomplice to murder and torture of magical and non-magical beings, attempted murder, accomplice to crimes against Wizardkind, Death Eater activities, high treason, and the list goes on. While acquitted –again, readers, due to his age- and the testimony of Harry Potter, it stands to reason that many of these crimes were committed by him with full conscious intent. After all, the age of 16 is hardly an age of childlike behavior [see page 3 for an interview with Law-wizard Corker on age demarcation in judicial systems]. It is clear young Lord Malfoy has always intended to follow his father’s footsteps, and is even now working his way up the Ministry ladder. Who is to say that this is not just part of an elaborate scheme to worm his way back into power, besides his father? …”_ And so the article went. Draco swallows audibly, and looks up at Lawrence, who is clenching his fists.  
“I’m sorry you had to find out like this, Lawrence” he starts, quietly. Lawrence scoffs.  
“You told me you were on the wrong side of the war, Draco. Not that you were in _that_ deep!” he takes a deep breath. “You should have told me!” Lawrence accuses, looking angry and hurt.  
“So you could hate me, as you do now?” he asks.  
“No, I hate you now because you didn’t! How can I trust you?! You _lied_ , Draco!”. He exclaims, chest heaving. Draco throws away the paper, setting it on fire with a snap. Lawrence flinches.  
“Of _course_ I lied, you twit! How can I not? Everyone who know my past hates me!” he yells.  
“At least they know who you are, and not to believe a word you say!” Lawrence yells back, pushing against Draco’s chest. “God! I feel so stupid now, trying to be friends! Thinking we were equals!”.  
Draco clenches his jaw again, feels his teeth grinding together.  
“We _are_ equals, Lawrence. ” Lawrence looks at him, incredulous.  
“You tortured people like me! You _hated_ people like me, hunted them down to kill them!”.  
“I didn’t want to!” he yells, losing his temper finally. He feels his magic taking up space around him, crackling. Lawrence takes a step back.  
“I had no choice, alright! He was going to kill my parents!” he screeches.  
“You always have a choice, arsehole! What, you’re still talking about this Dark Lord of yours, this Lord-”  
“ _Voldemort_ ,” Draco spits out, gaining in on Lawrence, pushing him against the wall next to the fireplace. “Was a genocidal maniac who _raped_ my mind, set his followers on me to hone their _talents_ , and forced me in any way he could to bend me to his will. Don’t _think_ -” he heaves, loosening his grip a little “that I enjoyed any second of it, once I saw what it meant. That I wanted any of it.” He steps back, and Lawrence stumbles, looking wide-eyed and a little scared of him.  
“You still did it though, didn’t you?” Lawrence states, lowly. Draco looks at him, throat thick.  
“Yes, I did. Don’t think for a second that I don’t regret-” he gets pushed aside by Lawrence.  
“Whatever, Draco. I don’t want to hear your excuses”. He walks to the door, and Draco looks on helplessly as he opens it. “Don’t call me again, you _Death Eater_.” He spits out, and slams the door closed behind him.  
Brighid hoots and flies to him, and he kneels on the carpet, tucking her under his chin. She curls into him, and he buries his fingers in her feathers.  
“At least you know me, and still want to be my friend” he whispers. He feels his eyes burning. Brighid hoots dolefully at him, and he strokes her feathers for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also want to thank all of you who wrote such amazing and lovely comments last chapter! I write to please you, and I hope I don't disappoint.  
> By the way, the flowers will be back, but the plot also needs to move forwards sometimes :)


	17. The boy who lived to testify for Draco, apparently

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lawrence cannot accept that he's been so tricked by Draco, and goes to find answers to what he considers to be the only reliable source. Of course it has to be Harry, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I am extremely sorry this chapter is so very late. You might have guessed it already, but I had a personal health crisis, and all other things had to be put on hold. I somehow, over the last few months managed to pass my defense and graduate. I am recovering, but it's a slow process.  
> I stand by what I said before, I will not abandon this fic.  
> However, this chapter took me a month to write and I seem to have forgotten all of what I've written before. If there are any major inconsistencies, please tell me so I can fix them. Updates for now, will be there when they'll be there. Hopefully every month at least.

_“Dear Harry,_

_Thank you for coming with me to the first ultrasound. I’ve enclosed a snapshot of your future godchild, although I admit, they’re still distinctly blob-shaped. Ron still feels bad for having been doused with that potion – I keep telling him at least we were in the same hospital, but he’s not having it at all. It also doesn’t help that he’s still burping up feathers. Utterly hilarious, I’m going to tease him forever! Anyway, good godfather points to you. I think I shall bring Draco next time, although I’m not sure being confronted with any women-parts is going to appeal to his sensibilities. Maybe he’ll faint, can you imagine?  
I have a another request though. I had wanted to bring it up over dinner last Tuesday, but then Teddy fell asleep at the table and I never got round to it. Please let me know whether his energy levels are improving, I can give Mungo’s a call if need be?  
Well, as you know, we’ve been working on our new reform bill. I won’t bother you with the details just now (and I rather think my parchment is too short) but could you reconsider you attendance of the Ministry Function next month? Perhaps you might even be persuaded to give a little talk, about unity between non-magical and magical beings, and what Hogwarts meant to you? You know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, Harry. _

_Love, Hermione_

_PS: Weren’t Sanaz’s cousins the cutest? Let’s have a dinner party with all of us, soon”_

Harry’s slowly mulling Hermione’s letter over while he’s tending to the Horned Aloe Vera, which were especially potent against Dragonfire burns. He doesn’t want to pop one of the little spiky things lest he waste some of the precious liquid inside the horns.   
It had been rather surreal, to see Hermione’s stomach project a wobbly shape when the healer had cast the spell. He glanced at the image she’d enclosed, and smiled. A weird looking blob indeed, and unlike muggle ultrasounds, this one was bright purple and the image moved on an invisible axis, like a globe. Neville had already squealed upon seeing it, but exhausted as he was, he’d retreated to the back to sit down in the sun-room. Harry could well imagine how tiring it must be, with a newborn. He hadn’t been there with Teddy when he was a scarce week or so old, but Teddy had been a terrible sleeper for years, nightmares plaguing him often. Harry was glad though, at the thought that Neville and Hannah were in it together, and they were so good together too. Wonderfully sappy, if he was being honest. Then again, if anyone deserved it, it was Neville.   
Finishing with the Aloe, he sets it aside, and turns to the Fanged Geraniums. They were rather temperamental, but always a favourite. He frowns a little as he mulls over the last part of her letter. He hadn’t attended many public events lately, rather, not any. Not since… well. He couldn’t really see why this one was more important than all the other ones, even if he knew Hermione was cooking up a grand plan or other. He licks his lips. Mrs. Picklewilly had also said something to the effect he should attend; he even felt like he had been lulled into a promise of some sort, even if he couldn’t remember it properly. He sighs. If he were to go, he definitely didn’t want to go alone. Neither was it attractive to take whomever Mrs. Picklewilly set him up with; most likely one of her many pureblood cousins who would either bore him to tears or be awestruck all night and fawning over him. Maybe he should bring someone more neutral… someone not out to play a game with him. Perhaps he could persuade Healer Lindsay –Rowan, to come? Harry frowns a little. Would that be weird? He's Teddy’s healer, after all. Then again, they’d gotten more amicable during the single parents support group, and had even had coffee after one of the meetings last week. Harry felt himself blush a little. Maybe he should-  
“ouch!” he clutches his bitten palm in his other hand, just as the door to the shop opens with a ring of the bell. He curses under his breath, and greets the new customer.  
  
“Welcome to Spectral Sprouts!” It comes out rather strangled. He glares murderously at the Fanged Geranium, which was swaying back and forth gently now, not at all looking like it’d almost bitten his finger off. In had walked a familiar looking, lanky teen- young man, maybe. He was looking rather mutinous in Harry’s direction, like something about his person set him off. Most notable were his muggle clothes, a dark green hoodie and a pair of ratty jeans, not unlike the ones Harry was sporting. He was dawdling in the entryway to the shop, his shoulders stiff. What was more, Harry had the distinct impression that this young man wasn’t magical. There was a lack of buzz around him, something Harry noticed around magical beings, even the plants.  
“Ehm, can I help you with something?” he probed, gentling his tone while he bent over to get a cloth for his bleeding hand. The youth grunted, but approached the counter.  
“I need to talk to you about Draco”. He said in a low voice. His brown eyes looked angry, his posture screamed ‘hurt’. Oh dear. He dealt enough with Malfoy himself in the shop: he didn’t want some jilted lover (though wasn’t this boy rather young for him?) coming in and harassing Harry about it.  
“Listen, I don’t know who you are, but I’m not here to council anyone on Malfoy. I hardly know him”. Harry grumbled, immediately on the defensive. He’d wrapped his hands in the cloth, and had covered the unpruned fangs with another, lest it try to attack him or his customer. The young man’s mouth pulls into a straight, severe line. He looks at the countertop angrily.  
  
Harry surveys him again, and suddenly he knows where he’s seen him before; coming down Diagon with Malfoy, just a few weeks ago! Had even bought something from Harry, for his aunt or something. Harry hears Neville’s footsteps approach, and then he speaks into the tense air.  
“Why would you want to talk about Draco?”.   
The young man turns to Neville, recognition in his eyes. His posture was less angry, but still clearly upset.  
“You must be Neville Longbottom, right? You own the shop?” he inquires, his eyes turning sharp again.  
“That’s right,” says Neville neutrally. “Draco’s my friend, as well. I think he’s told me about you, actually”, he says. The young man surveys both Harry and Neville, then the empty shop, and seems to come to a decision.  
“I want to know about his role in the war” he says, clearly. Harry felt his face do something Neville snorts at, and shoots him a glare. Neville’s eyes turn kind; he obviously understood something Harry didn’t.  
“Why don’t you come over and have a little tea with me. It’s not a story one should discuss without tea.” He turns to Harry. “You, calm down and come have a cup as well. There's disinfectant in the second drawer behind you, by the way.” Neville winks tiredly and guides the boy to the sunroom.

Harry, feeling chastised, turns around to properly take care of his hands. He hears the muffled sounds of a tense conversation, the boy biting out short sentences and Neville’s soothing timbre. Harry takes a few deep breaths. He wasn’t on trial, and neither was Malfoy, he has to remind himself. Maybe he should hold off judgement on this boy until he knew what was going on. He forced his shoulders to unclench, and turns to the sunroom.  
“…I don’t understand, how can you still trust him after that?!” came the angry voice from the boy. Neville notices Harry in the doorway to the sunroom and gestures him to come in.  
“Harry, this is Lawrence. He’s one of Draco’s friends'' -the youth scoffs at that- ''Lawrence, you know about Harry Potter”. The boy –Lawrence turns just enough to send him a glare. Harry shrugs, not even trying to be nice, and goes to get himself a cup for the tea. He sniffs the air: chamomile and lavender. Not his favourite, but he could understand why Neville had chosen it. Neville continues to converse, unperturbed. He reminds Harry a little of Mr. Weasley, calm in the face of chaos –and upset youths.  
“He worked to gain first my forgiveness, then my trust, and then my friendship, Lawrence. I didn’t make it easy on him, believe me”. He answers calmly. Harry holds back a snort. Neville was still kinder than most, even if he had some sort of a weird friendship with Malfoy. Then again, he didn’t understand how Ron could stand him, but he did as well. Had family dinners with him, even. Lawrence turns to Harry.  
“Explain it to me then! Why did you testify on his behalf, Harry Potter?”. Harry looks at him, and sighs.  
“What do you know about the war, Lawrence?” he asks instead of answering directly. The young man frowns, a little thrown off by his question.  
“I know there was a dark wizard, Voldemort…” (Neville flinches, and Lawrence doesn’t notice; Harry approves) “who wanted to eradicate all those he deemed of ‘lesser blood’, including Squibs like me.” He raises his chin defiantly and looks at them. Harry nods, warming a little to him. This one had bite.  
“Correct”. Harry says, putting down his tea, and scratches at his beard. It was getting a bit too long, these days.  
“Don’t forget about blood traitors like yours truly” Neville adds, grinning a little. Lawrence seems to relax a little again. Harry takes a deep breath.  
“Malfoy’s family was one of Voldemort’s followers”. Lawrence nods; he clearly knows all of this. “His parents, Lucius and Narcissa, had only one child. They, like many other parents, raised that child in their image: they taught him how to ride a broom, to say please and thank you, and equally, that his blood was worth more than that of those around him”. Harry has said this too in his testimonial at the trials. Lawrence bobs his leg up and down impatiently.  
“So?” he answers, dismissive.  
“I have never had parents, Lawrence. Neither has Neville, because of the first war.” Neville nods at him, eyes serious. He sees Lawrence flinch a little, as if the comment brings up some memories of his own.  
“However, I have always strived to gain the approval of every adult I looked up to, that could give me that affection.” He laughs a little bitterly at that. It hadn’t worked at the Dursley’s, and it certainly hadn’t affected Dumbledore’s plans for him; he was always meant to be a sacrifice.  
“I was willing to lay my life down for that approval, for a cause that I was taught was the most important thing. And I did. I died for it.” He says, evenly. He feels a bit distant from the conversation now. He can feel Lawrence looking at him, wide-eyed. The tea is forgotten on the table, little wafts of steam still rising in the air.  
“So in a way, Malfoy and I aren’t so different.” He states, knowing how true it is, even if he doesn’t like to ponder on it.  
“But, how can you say that?! He’s as good as a war criminal!” Lawrence exclaims, fists clenching. Neville pets one of his hands.  
“We’re not making excuses for him, Lawrence” he tries, consolingly.  
“But you are! You’re saying that what he did wasn’t bad at all! He wanted to murder people like me!” he growls.  
Harry shakes his head. “No, Lawrence. I’m merely saying that given the same circumstances, I probably would have done what he did. Made the same choices, of which there were very few.”  
“But, what he did! It was evil!”. Harry cocks his head. Neville regards them steadily.  
“What he did was reprehensible. He was a horrible child, and he bullied both of us mercilessly” Neville states. Lawrence sighs and turns to Neville, as Harry takes a few deep breaths. His chest felt rather tight. “He made a lot of bad choices in the war, I know. But I think there weren’t many good ones for him at all, you know.”  
“I bet you didn’t make those choices, though, did you?” Lawrence spits out.  
Neville’s mouth turns stern. “I didn’t have parents to protect. A mother who doted on me, or a father whose approval I’ve always desperately wanted. It’s easy to make the right choice when you have very little to lose”. Lawrence seems a bit cowed, if still mutinous. Harry clears his throat.  
“You seem to think we’re all saints around here, because we were on the winning side. That couldn’t be further from the truth, you know”. Neville raises his eyebrows at him, unsure of where he is going. He knows Harry doesn’t want to talk about all the things he had to do in the war.  
“I let many people die for me in the war, so I could continue with my 'mission'.” He starts, and Neville wants to interrupt, but Harry silences him with a held-up hand. He briefly checks the store, and wards it wandlessly. He doesn’t want any misunderstandings about the war, but he also doesn’t want the whole world to overhear him. “I manipulated people to give me what I needed to stop the war, I lied, and tricked”. He states. Lawrence’s eyes are wide. Neville’s mouth is pinched.  
“I cursed a student with a curse so dark, he should have died from it. That was Malfoy”. Lawrence nods, and mutters “I’ve seen the scars”. Harry raises an eyebrow. He hadn’t known there were still scars. His chest feels sore.  
“I killed a man, you know. People tend to forget” he finishes. Lawrence looks confused.  
“Voldemort”, Harry adds, and Neville shudders.  
“But it needed to be done!” Lawrence argues.  
“Even if it did, does that still not make me a murderer? Isn’t my soul more torn than even Malfoy’s?” His voice is almost a whisper, hoarse. Lawrence looks pale, unsure. All the fight seems to have left him.  
Neville grasps the young man’s shoulder, and squeezes.  
“It’s okay if you have questions or doubts. But don’t feel like you don’t know your friend, because he hasn’t explained his whole past to you.”  
“But he’s a liar, isn’t he?” He croaks out.  
Neville shrugs. “We all choose to show different parts of ourselves. I reckon Draco wanted you to know him _now_ , to hold him to the standard he’s set by showing you a better person.”  
Harry’s mind is spinning, and he rubs his chest with a rough hand. He’s not entirely sure he wants to hear the rest of this. He’s done his job. Every Squib deserves to know the truth of the war, and to be sure of their place in this new world. His job was done. Still, he’s unable to move his legs to stand up and leave.  
“Draco works really hard to ensure that Muggleborns and Squibs have a place here, you know this.” Neville states, and Lawrence nods. “He even told me that he fancies you a Slytherin”, and Harry snorts. “That’s a compliment, coming from Draco, you know", Neville adds. Lawrence shrugs, looks away.  
  
“And you, Harry, Draco’s been visiting you, hasn’t he?” Harry jerks upright.  
“Ehm, well, yes, he has”. He answers awkwardly. Neville is displaying a little smirk, and continues  
“Harry’s godson is Draco’s cousin, you see”. Lawrence nods, as if he know this as well. “Draco seems to have taken quite a shine to Teddy, hasn’t he? He’s learning all of his favourite foods, I hear” Neville smiles. Harry can feel a blush creeping up his cheeks. Neville laughs. “Oh, I’m not implying anything, ” –he totally is, Harry feels-, “but don’t you think if Draco wasn’t at all trustworthy and a better person, Harry would let him near his godson?” he asks both Harry and Lawrence. Lawrence looks down to his feet, and shrugs. “Would you, Harry?” Neville presses.  
“Well, er, no, that is-” he stammers. Something seems to have clicked for Lawrence however.  
“Wait, you’re godson is Teddy?! As in, _he’s_ the one that makes those weird drawings of cars with dragontails, and the microwave with whiskers?” he exclaims, looking a bit bewildered.  
Harry groans. He remembers the drawings well; it was another one of those instances where he had a nice little chat with his Muggle teacher, wondering how he got such ‘fantastical ideas’.  
“Eh, yes.” He frowns. “but, how do you know about the drawings?”. Teddy had put them away in his desk, as far as he knew.  
“Draco has them framed in his kitchen” Lawrence answers. Apparently not in the drawers, then. When had Teddy managed to give Draco these drawings, exactly?  
“Wait, framed?” Neville asks, clearly amused. Lawrence shrugs, smiles a little for the first time.  
“They’re a recent addition. Custom frame and everything, I figured it was some fancy modern art.” He waves a dismissive hand. “What do I know of art? Some of it looks just like that!”.  
Neville snorts in laughter. Harry feels a bit wrongfooted, but also pleased. It seemed Malfoy really wasn’t out to get him, and this just proved it. At last, the tension seeps from Lawrence’s frame, and the conversation turns to Teddy. Harry learns little of who this young man actually his, but he can’t help but like him. Something about him is familiar, in his sharp questions, his eagerness to know things.

Later that night, after Harry’s tucked Teddy into bed –he hasn’t mentioned the drawings at all- he sits down at the kitchen table, on which are the remains of the last pre-cooked ‘Malfoy-meal’ they had. Excellent, as always. He wondered if it meant that Malfoy would come by to cook tomorrow. He wasn’t sure how to feel about it now, having met Lawrence. Having discussed how he might have been just like Malfoy, had he been raised differently. It made him a little uneasy, and he rubbed his chest again.

All thoughts of asking Healer Lindsay to the Ministry Function lay forgotten, as he continues to wonder what he actually knows about who Draco Malfoy is, these days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for bearing with me, and for leaving comments and kudos. It is especially those comments that have given me the motivation to finish another chapter, and that keep me writing. Being ill is isolating, not even mentioning the ongoing plague. So, please tell me what wonderful thing you've discovered in your life, and make this a very cheerful comment section. A favourite tea perhaps?


	18. The Wizengamot's ruling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wizengamot has ruled. Draco finally gets someone in his corner, and he finds out about his mother's friend Jane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my dear readers, friends! Recovery is a long road, made better by your kind wishes. I'm unable to respond to messages currently, but at least I can post a new chapter.

This was it. The axe had fallen. The sword of Damocles that had hung over his head, had finally dropped itself in his stupid, weak little neck. Draco sat defeated at the polished mahogany desk in one of the little privacy rooms in Gringotts, eyes drawn to the distorted reflection of himself he saw in the surface. In the background, Blaise was tiredly arguing with their Gringotts Goblin, Mordok, trying to find a loophole that Draco knew well wasn’t there.

The Wizengamot had argued well into the night about his father’s appeal, finally coming to a decision after three rounds of voting, at exactly 4:38 this morning. It was all over the newspapers, of course, though Blaise had shielded him from it. The Ministry had, however, sent him a letter regarding the decision. He knew that his mother had gotten a similar letter than he: she as Lucius’s next of kin, Draco as his Heir.   
The Wizengamot had granted his father’s reinstatement and re-trial by a small margin. A small margin, that Potter, blast him, could have swayed, had he deigned to be there. Draco felt his resentment grow. He didn’t want Potter to come to his aid yet again, but he still blamed him for this mess. Stupid Potter, with his perfect inheritance and his perfect house and his perfect little family, none of which Draco had now. He couldn’t even access his trustfund, which was in his name, because it was conditional on his being traditionally bonded. He had to scoff a little at that. Father had probably known about his _preferences_ , so to speak, and sought to motivate him to have a ‘proper family’ by dangling the trust fund before him. It hadn’t yet worked. It wouldn’t, even now, he resolved. He forced himself to unclench his jaw, folded his white hands in his lap. He felt cold. He set himself to prying off the silver and emerald Malfoy crest-ring, wanting to pelt it across the room like a petulant child. He wouldn’t, of course. The Goblin would just pick it up and put it in the Family vault. His father’s vault. He set it on the table with a little _clack_.

He’d have to vacate his apartment by the end of the week.   
He won’t even be able to pay Blaise for all his help, as it stood now. It was a small wonder, that his Slytherin loyalty had held until this moment. All of his vaults had been seized the moment of the decision. He only had a few days respite to vacate his apartment because it was exactly three days for the paperwork to get through, and the reinstated Lord Malfoy had to be able to exercise and ‘enjoy all his rights and use of property as was his due’ by then. He would be opening a new bank account now, so at least he’d have access to his Ministry salary. After of course, war restitutions had been deducted. A Death-Eater tax, so to speak. It hadn’t really bothered him financially before, of course, but it was an infinite contribution. To his death. Of thirty-five percent of his salary, no less. He wondered if he could even afford to rent in London, now. Definitely not in the Muggle areas, he supposed. 

Beneath the thin veneer of anger he was hallow. It was like someone had extracted his insides with a large ice-cream scoup and misplaced them somewhere else. A pressing headache was growing at the back of his skull. Maybe it had all been stashed there, cramped in the back of his head: all his insides, his feelings, his horrible ability to care too fucking much about all of it. About his fucking starry ceiling and the peachy kitchen cabinets, a colour he had lamented endlessly and loved secretly. Fucking Muggle central heating, that made all the rooms equally comfortable without having to light fires. He would miss all of it. And where was he supposed to _go_?  
  


He hears Blaise’s raised voice, and he Goblin’s stern response. Not unsympathetic sounding, however. Nothing could be done. He left them to it, and stood to leave.

-

  
His keys jangle as he opens the door to the apartment. He pushes away any thougt pertaining to how often he will get to do that again, and steps inside. He wants to sleep for a week, now, but he still needs to get to the office, and he can’t afford to slack _now_. And all of them will be staring, like they had when the previous newspaper articles had dropped. They will be chuckling, whispering ‘oooh, look at the poor little Death-Eater’, and follow him with their greedy little gossipy eyes. He suppresses a shudder.

He drops the keys in a little dish by the door, and glances at the clock. Only 7:50. He still has time for breakfast and a shower. Time to dress himself, and apply a few cosmetic charms, so he doesn’t look like he hasn’t slept in over 20 hours (he hasn’t, of course). He sets to make himself a strong cup of tea, thinking coffee will only exacerbate his tiredness at this point, when his eyes find the little grey owl outside of his window.

He briefly fears it’s more hatemail, but then remembers that his wards are too strong; Ron had made sure of that. It seemed he and Potter had devised pretty extensive warding charms against pranks and hateful messages, for god knows what reason. He dredges up a smile for the little owl, and lets it in.

“Hello, little one. Let me get you a treat, yes?” He turns, and gets the owl treats first before detaching its letter. His own owl, Brighid, is probably still sleeping in her dark corner of his bedroom. He tries not to wonder if Brighid is also owned by his father now. He’ll sneak her away if he has to, he will. He takes the small envelope, lets the owl out after a small nip on his finger, and sits down to read it.

_“Dear Draco,_

_I know you probably do not wish to hear this, but I am so sorry this is happening to you. I can only imagine what kind of ~~night~~ morning you’ve had. If you need a place to stay and don’t mind realistic cloud paint, our nursery could also serve as a guest bedroom. You are welcome, Draco._

_You’ll find a picture of your future godchild in here, too. I went to the ultrasound with Harry, and I hope you can come with me next time? You are part of our little family, now too, you know!  
  
If you can’t come to work today, Draco, that is fine. You are perfectly within your rights to owl in sick. I’ll even file your owl myself if I have to. _

_Much love,_

_Hermione”_

Draco studies the little purple blob on the magical photograph. It was swimming in darker coloured sphere, its heart beating, probably somewhere knowing it was wanted. His eyes started to burn. _‘you are part of our little family’,_ indeed. That was _his_ godchild. His family, by choice.

He bursts into tears, tea forgotten on the table, the photograph cradled to his chest.   
  


He’s in the shower trying to wake himself when he hears a loud knock on the door. It shocks him out of some of his more depressing considerations, especially when he hears a shrill voice coming through the door. “Draco, I swear if you don’t let me in this instance I will blast through your stupid Muggle door!”. He frowns. It can’t be....? But there’s only one person who’d barge in so rudely. He jumps out of the shower like there’s fire at his heels and quickly wraps himself in a towel.   
“I’m losing my patience here! I’m counting to three! One… tw- Oh, there you are, Draco ducky”. He yanks open the door to the smiking, red lipped smile of Pansy Parkinson, fresh from Vienna, dressed in a periwrinkle blue dress and heels that would break anyone’s ankles. Pansy Parkinson, bones of steel and friend for the ages.   
“Don’t call me that.” He snaps at her, and she rolls her eyes as she steps through, forcing him back inside.   
“Well, I didn’t know you were in the shower ducky, you might’ve warned me” she sniffs, and heads straight to the kitchen. “Get dressed, ducky, I’ll see you in the kitchen” She glances over at him, and she no doubt sees more than he likes, as he stands there in his towel, dripping and tired. “Why not go for the jade robes. It might even give you some colour.” She nods decidedly, and clacks away. He sighs, and heads to his bedroom. She might be right. If he wore anything too bright he’d be a washed out corpse, and black would head straight into decaying-inferi territory. A little coo warns him before Brighid finally leaves her perch and burrows into his neck, her warm body close to his damp one. He strokes her and ignores the claws digging into his naked shoulder. The robes he takes out of the closet are of a more traditional, double breasted style, with classic pearl buttons. Suited for spring, and definitely comfortable. Something he’s worn often, inconspicuous but dignified, and not at all like he’s given up. He carefully moves Brighid to his bed, where she settles on his pillow and keeps an eye on him lazily. She coos, and he can almost muster a smile for his silly owl. Finally dressed, he looks at his watch: 8:23. He wonders how Pansy managed to wrangle an international portkey so soon after the news.

A smell is wafting from the kitchen, and he resigns himself to her cooking. It didn’t smell burned, yet, at least. It was usually Draco who cooked, especially here, in his Muggle kitchen. Pansy had her talents, but cooking was definitely _not_ one of them.   
Luckily for him, the smell was Pansy taking off the containing charm on the fresh waffles she’s brought, which she’s setting up on the table, together with cinnamon sugar (where did she find that?! It was in his secret sweets cupboard!) and a large dosis of pepper up, freshly brewed, judging by the steam from it. She sits down primly, and pours herself a steaming cup of coffee.   
“Sit down before you fall down, ducky” she snaps, but not unkindly. It’s Pansy: she can sound mean and fond at the same time. It's an enviable talent, that.   
He sighs, but does as he’s told all the same. He gratefully downs the pepper-up potion, and puts half a waffle on his plate while the steam exits his ears. He ignores Pansy’s little snigger. Perhaps he can eat something after all.   
“Well, Draco, I’ve already owled your mother. We’re meeting her later today.” Draco’s head snaps up to look at her, his cheeks bulging inelegantly with the waffles. They were truly excellent, after all.   
“What?” he splutters, as best he can, while his lips are crusted with cinnamon sugar. He grabs a napkin, hoping to retain some of his dignity. Always difficult when Pansy’s around, he must say.  
“Yes. I’m sure you need to go into _work_ today,” she drawls, as if work was something dirty, which she well knew wasn’t: she owned a successful cosmetics business, after all, and not by lazying around, “but we’re having lunch together, and we need some sort of a _plan_ , after all.” He sighs, and swallows another bit of waffle. At least she’ll let him go to work, not that he was looking at all forward to it. But, as he reminded himself, he had grown a spine since the war, and he wasn’t going to let his father ruin it for him again. He glances at the little purple ultrasound picture, already tucked in the corner of the frames of Teddy’s drawings. He can be strong.

And when lunchtime rolls around, he’s doubly glad to see Pansy waiting for him outside of the ministry, looking as clever and sharp as ever, even a little mean. He takes her arm, and they set off to Diagon, to his surprise. They land in front of Mrs. Picklewilly’s shop, and is so incredulous to glimpse his mother’s elegant blonde hair in the back of the shop that he doesn’t even care about all they curious eyes that glimpse his way. Amongst them a pair of bright green ones, framed by round lenses, peering curiously from behind a flowershop window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this is a bit of a boring, transitional chapter. BUT in the next one something is going to happen which I KNOW you will all love. I'm giddy with excitement!


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